Defector: 12/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Patrolman Third Class Wilbur Parks opened his eyes. He blinked in confusion at his blurry surroundings, wishing that the throbbing behind his eyes would abate. It felt as if someone were pounding him rhythmically on the head, and sparks shot through his vision with every beat of his heart.
He was lying in a bed, he realized after an indefinite length of time. Around him he could hear assorted moans and gurgling noises. What the devil had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was leaving Torali's Bar.
A hair-raising screech next to him made him jerk convulsively, and he turned his head to stare at the screamer.
A man lay in the bed to his left, his belly swollen like that of a woman nine months pregnant. He howled again, screaming something about spiders. Parks couldn't make out most of the words, but he could see that the guy's hands were secured to the rails of the bed with leather wrist-cuffs.
He coughed. The movement sent wracking pains through his body. He hurt. Everything hurt. What the devil had happened? How had he gotten here?
A shrill, clucking noise to his right drew his attention, and he rolled his head to look.
One of the owl-like Procyons was strapped to the bed on his right. Crazed, dark eyes regarded him with murderous intensity, and he saw the cruelly taloned hands straining at the imprisoning bonds. The creature's soft blue fluff was standing out straight around its face, and the hooked beak was wide open. As Parks stared in horror, the being voiced again that nerve-grating clucking sound.
"Hey!" Parks yelled. He tried to sit up but a strap around his chest restrained him. His hands were secured, too, like those of his unfortunate comrades. Parks took a deep breath, smelling the rank odor of sweat and vomit. The man on his left was shrieking wildly about snakes crawling down the walls toward him. Parks looked to see, and then jerked his gaze away. Snakes! What was wrong with the guy?
"Hey!" he yelled again. "Somebody help me!"
He was ignored. The Procyon was clucking cuss words at him and, to Parks' horror, the being appeared to have almost freed one arm from the leather restraint.
"Help!" Parks yelled again. "Somebody come quick! This damned owl's getting loose!"
A Procyon nurse appeared beside him, speaking soothingly. Parks jerked his head toward the Procyon. "He's getting away!"
The nurse looked and then went matter-of-factly over to the creature, and tightened the strap. The being hissed savagely, spitting curses at her. The nurse ignored it and walked away.
"Hey!" Parks yelled again. "Let me outta these things!"
The nurse left the room and Parks employed a few choice words, including a weak, but sincere description of her ancestral origin. "Help! I'm no sot! My name's Parks!"
A Terran girl appeared beside him, regarding him soberly. She was young and pretty, with dark-lashed eyes and heavily rouged lips. "What's the matter, mister?"
Parks took a deep breath. The strap cut into his chest. "Let me go, will you? I'm okay. Somebody must have hit me."
She nodded seriously. "I guess so. You should see yourself. There's dried blood and bruises all over your head. What did he use -- a sledgehammer?"
Parks grinned weakly. "Feels like it. Where am I?"
"This is the Chirill General Hospital -- medical ward. I'm Paula McLaughlin, nurse's assistant. You're Parks?"
"Yeah. Wilbur Parks. Viceregal Patrol."
"Oh. The girl's smile disappeared. She turned without a word and went out the door. Parks tried to sit up. "Hey! Don't leave! Come back, damn you!"
She vanished. Parks lay still, cursing lividly.
After an hour, Paula McLaughlin returned, a basin of water in her hands. She placed it on the bedside table and pulled the dingy curtains around the bed, not looking at him. Parks ground his teeth. "Damn you!" he grated. "I could have you put in the chair for this! By God, I will, unless you let me go!"
Paula didn't answer. She dipped the washcloth into the basin and washed the blood from his face.
Parks glared at her. "Take these damned straps off me!"
She still didn't look at him. "Sorry, I can't. Doctor's orders."
"What doctor? I demand to see him!"
She wiped blood from his neck. "The doctor's busy right now. He'll be here after a while."
Parks swore, beginning to struggle with the leather restraints. Paula ignored him and pulled back the covers. "The Viceregal Patrol killed my fiance, 'trol. Don't expect any help from me."
He lay rigid while she finished the bath. When she was done, she pulled the covers from the bed. "I'm going to change the linen now." Her voice was expressionless. "I'm not going to let you go, so you'd better help me, or you'll be lying on a bare mattress the rest of the day."
He rolled to the side as well as he could and she put fresh sheets on the bed, working skillfully. A doctor pulled back the curtains as she finished. He was a Terran, and accompanying him was the Procyon nurse. The man sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced at Parks, then squinted at the chart in his hand. "Parks, is it?"
"Yeah," Parks growled.
"Viceregal Patrol, I hear."
Parks gritted his teeth and glanced sideways at the nursing assistant. She met his gaze, her expression hard, then turned abruptly and left the curtained area.
"Well?" the doctor asked, sharply.
"That's right."
"Where are you stationed, Patrolman?"
"The 'Leviathan.'"
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "According to the news reports, the 'Leviathan' departed for Corala some hours ago, with that Underground prisoner." He glanced at the chart again and then at the Procyon nurse. "Let him go, Le'Pal."
The nurse released the straps on Parks' wrists and chest. He sat up, rubbing his wrists. "Now, I'm going to kill that damned assistant --"
"Leave our hospital employees alone, Mr. Parks." The doctor shoved him down again. "We have damned few of them, especially good ones like Paula."
Parks was silent, glaring at the man. The doctor stood up. "All right, I'm going to check you over. You've been out quite a while. What happened to you, anyway?"
"I'm not sure," Parks said, as the doctor leaned forward, flashing a light into his eyes. "Last I remember is leaving Torali's Bar."
"You were found in a trash can this morning," the doctor said. "Good thing you've got a thick skull. Someone was trying to kill you from the looks of it. Probably thought you were dead when he left you." He drew a small metal device from a pocket and ran it over Parks' head while watching the readout on a miniature screen at the head of the bed. "Gave you a good concussion, but you're all right. We're sending you to the hospital at the Patrol base. They can take it from there."
"Thanks." Parks glanced at the wild-eyed Procyon beside him as the nurse drew back the curtains. "Man, what a place!"
The doctor got to his feet. "You can go." He turned and moved to the bed belonging to the Terran on Parks' other side. The man in the bed voiced another shrill scream. Parks shuddered.
He made it to the Chirill Patrol Station half an hour later, and reported to the Patrol Base Hospital in a borrowed Patrol coat. There, he waited for nearly two hours before a doctor finally checked him over and declared him fit to return to duty. The next port of call for the "Leviathan" would be Riskell, he was told by a bored and unsympathetic sergeant. He would be sent third class tourist accommodations to rejoin his ship there. Parks made a mental note to look up Miss Paula McLaughlin the next time he was on Ranlach.
**********
XII
Thoroski came wide-awake at the sound of someone calling him. He was on his feet instantly, blinking at the scene before him.
Lyn Parnell still lay on his bunk, and clutched in both of her slender hands was Thoroski's blaster. Gregory Smythe was sprawled face down on the thin carpet that covered the metal deck, unmoving. Thoroski stared in horror. "M'Gawd! Did you kill him?"
She went limp against the pillows, the blaster sliding from her fingers. "No, I just stunned him. He's a friend, then?"
"He's an Underground agent, or so he says. He knows I've changed sides and so far the Jils don't, so he must be for real."
Lyn gave a deep sigh. "He scared me silly. Yes, he's shielded. I see it, now that I'm looking for it."
Thoroski bent to pick up the blaster and stuffed it into his holster. "How'd you get hold of this?"
She laughed a little. "I had to. If he hadn't been a friend --"
"Oh," Thoroski said, understanding at once. "Jerked it right out of my holster from two meters away, I'll bet." He knelt beside the valet. "He'll be coming around in a minute or so. I wonder what he's doing here. He was supposed to leave the ship on Corala."
"Maybe he figured he'd better stick around."
"Yeah." Thoroski got to his feet. "How are you feeling, honey? Any better?"
She nodded, smiling at him confidently. "Could I have some water?"
"Sure." He poured a cup and lifted her shoulders, holding it for her. "How's the burn?"
She lay back against the pillow again. "It must be getting better. It doesn't hurt so much. I even feel a little hungry."
"Me, too." Thoroski sighed. "I don't have much to eat in here, though, and I don't dare go strolling into the mess. We'll just have to tough it out." He turned as the valet groaned. "Ah, he's coming around."
The valet groaned again and began to gag. Thoroski knelt beside him, thoughtfully presenting him with a hand towel. "Take it easy, kid. As you said to me, you'll feel better when it's over."
Smythe gagged again, obviously making a heroic effort to control his unruly stomach and, much to Thoroski's amazement, seemed to succeed, although his complexion remained a curious hue of pale green. "Damn!" he whispered.
Thoroski patted his shoulder, grinning a little. "Why Mister Smythe, I've never heard you utter a cussword before."
"Beg pardon, sir," Smythe muttered. He groaned.
"I'm sorry, Mister Smythe," Lyn said contritely. "My mistake."
"It's all right, Captain." Smythe groaned again as Thoroski helped him to sit up. "Understandable. I should have been on my guard."
"What are you doing here?" Thoroski asked. "Decide to stick around a little longer?"
The valet nodded, grimacing, although his complexion seemed to have recovered slightly. "After the Jil was killed, I developed a very healthy respect for you, sir. I thought you might need some help, though." He got slowly to his feet, still rubbing his head, and came over to Lyn. "I'm glad to meet you, Captain Parnell."
Her eyes met his, and Thoroski saw her inhale sharply. "Oh my!"
"What?" Thoroski demanded. "Do you know him?"
Lyn was staring at Smythe, and he was looking back at her, his face expressionless. There was a long moment of silence and then she shook her head. "No. I don't know him."
"Oh." Thoroski raised an eyebrow. "All right. If you say so. Anyhow, I didn't kill the Jil. We think it was Westover again."
"Really?" Smythe smiled primly. "Interesting." He turned away. "I've some soup concentrate in my quarters, sir, as well as some other supplies. If you like, I can make something for you to eat."
"Sure," Thoroski said. "And Lyn probably would like some, too."
"Just a little," Lyn said softly. "Thank you, Mr. Smythe."
**********
The Terran scout ship had made a short stop at a way station, and the occupants exchanged the scout for a skipper ship with Riskellian registry before proceeding on to Riskell. Kevin Bronson in the pilot's chair, brought them down at the local spaceport, and after a cursory inspection for contraband by a bored official, the ship was cleared for free access. Ed Quade, the C.O. of the Loquin Underground Station, masquerading as the Chelari Bar and Grill, arrived in less than half an hour and boarded at once. He clasped Mark's extended hand.
"Good to see you again, Colonel Linley." He glanced at Kevin. "This must be Lieutenant Bronson."
"Right the first time," Kevin said. "How do you do, Colonel?"
"A lot better, now that you're here. Where's Alan? -- I mean, Colonel Westover?"
"Okay," Mark said. "He's in the cabin. Lyin' down. Matt and him were in the hidey-hole while they were checkin' over the place. He got himself banged up on Corala."
Griffen, Lewis Stevens and Kurt were waiting quietly in the background. Quade nodded to them, and held up the suitcase he had brought with him. "Here's your stuff. Exactly your sizes. What are you planning to do with them?"
"Pay a visit to the 'Leviathan,'" Mark said. "Lyn's aboard."
Quade's brown eyes widened. "Prisoner?"
"We don't think so," Stevens said. "They're going to try to find out. Maybe they can arrange to meet whoever it is that's got her if they're hanging around the ship." He grinned slightly. "Besides, we've got some bargaining power, if it turns out she *is* a prisoner. Lord Revolthvor's snoozing on the deck behind the bulkhead."
"Ah!" Quade's dark face broke into a faintly malicious grin of pleasure. "The Jils are sure you've killed him. He's still alive, huh?"
"Oh, yeah," Linley said. "We'll take him along and dump him on their doorstep as soon as we have Lyn safe."
"Sounds like fun," Quade said. "Wish I could be there."
**********
Strike Commander Thoroski glanced up as Greg Smythe entered the cabin.
"I'm going now, sir," Smythe said. "I'll fetch an aircar and bring it to the supply shed. You're sure we're thinking of the same one?"
"Directly behind the gym."
"Yes, sir. All right. I'll see you in a few minutes." The valet went out and Thoroski waited a few moments, watching Lyn's small form. She was asleep on his bunk, curled up like a child, her dark hair tousled. He sat down beside her and shook her shoulder lightly. "Lyn."
Instantly, her eyes opened. "Yes?"
"We're here. Smythe's gone to find us a car. Remember, just lie still. Whatever happens, don't move a muscle."
She nodded. "I understand." She caught his hand. "Thank you, Sven."
He smiled and brushed a finger against her cheek. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Colonel Westover's a lucky guy."
She smiled at him, watching him pick up the laundry bag from the floor.
The bag was large, with plenty of room for Lyn to fit inside. As he lifted it, something hard on the bottom swung against his shin. Thoroski reached in and removed it. "Oops, I almost forgot about this." He held up the chart he had removed from the rack, back on the prison ward of the hospital. "Bet they wondered what happened to Patrolman Dunsbury's chart." He tossed it down the disposal chute on one bulkhead, which led to the ship's matter converter.
Lyn giggled. Thoroski lifted her and helped her wriggle carefully into the bag. Once she was settled, he stuffed towels around and on top of her to help fill the empty space. Very carefully, he drew the strings of the opening together and tied them. "You okay in there?"
"Fine," she assured him.
"Okay." He flipped the sheet and blanket up on his bunk, straightened it carefully and then glanced around. The Strike Commander's cabin was tidy, all traces of their having been there, gone. Smythe had seen to that.
He put on his borrowed helmet and lifted the laundry bag gently in his arms. "Can you check for me and see if there's anyone outside? We're at the door."
There was a moment of silence, then Lyn's voice, muffled by the bag and the surrounding towels. "I don't think anyone's there. I'm not sure, though."
"Okay." He switched on the intercom and lifted her to his shoulder, drawing his blaster. Once away from the officers' quarters, he would most likely be ignored but if anyone saw him coming out of the Strike Commander's quarters, his presence would be awkward to explain. He listened carefully, but no sound transmitted over the device. He pushed the opening button.
The corridor was deserted. Thoroski strode toward the lift at a brisk pace, carrying the laundry bag over one shoulder. He passed the sentry, making his rounds, and paused at the lift, glancing back.
The man was proceeding slowly away. Thoroski let out his breath and relaxed slightly.
The doors of the lift opened a few seconds later and Thoroski boarded, thanking his lucky stars that it was deserted although that was not surprising. The "Leviathan" was due to remain on Riskell for three days, Fleet time -- seventy-five hours -- and undoubtedly all the unneeded men were ashore right now, getting drunker than Coralan slubirds. Thoroski pressed the indicator for the sixth deck and the lift swished obediently into motion.
A patrolman was waiting to board as the lift opened on the sixth deck. He glanced incuriously at Thoroski and went past him into the lift. Thoroski exhaled softly and hurried toward the airlock.
The inner lock was open, but the outer, as expected, was closed tight. Thoroski touched the button to open it.
A chilly breeze hit him in the face as he stepped out onto the ramp. It was autumn on this part of Riskell, which meant that the days were warm and at night the temperature dropped to almost freezing. Thoroski strode briskly down the ramp.
"Hold it!"
He froze at the foot of the ramp, looking quickly around. A patrolman materialized out of the darkness, blaster in hand.
"All right, mister, put the bag down."
Thoroski obeyed, his mind racing. The patrolman stepped closer and in a flash, Thoroski recognized him. Wilbur Parks.
"Who the hell are you?" Parks demanded. "Take off that helmet!"
Thoroski reached up and unstrapped it. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Patrolman?" he snapped.
Parks' jaw dropped. "Strike Commander Thoroski?"
"Take that blaster off me, you idiot!"
But Parks hesitated, his mind obviously struggling with the contradiction of finding his Strike Commander carrying a laundry bag out the boarding hatch.
"Why are you wearing that helmet?" he asked. "It isn't yours."
"I was conducting an investigation," Thoroski replied. "Efficiency check. Put down the blaster, Mister Parks."
Still, Parks hesitated. Very slowly, he extended a foot and nudged the bag with the toe of his boot. There was a bitten-off gasp of pain.
Parks grasped the blaster with both hands and nudged the bag again, harder. This time there was no result. Lyn must now be gritting her teeth in an effort to remain quiet.
Parks began to grin, his teeth gleaming in the cold darkness. "Open the bag, sir."
Thoroski glared at the man in the dimness. "Did that concussion throw you completely over the edge, Patrolman? You're under arrest! Drop that blaster immediately!"
Parks' expression didn't change. "Open the bag, sir. Now."
"You open it, mister! Then report to the brig!"
"There's someone in there -- our little Underground prisoner, maybe?" Parks began to laugh. "So the great Strike Commander Thoroski is deserting! Open the bag or I'll kick her again!"
Thoroski gritted his teeth and Parks grinned, drawing his booted foot back.
"All right, I'll open it." Thoroski knelt beside the bag. Working slowly, he began to untie the knot. Parks watched him, grinning.
The strings came loose with infuriating ease and the top of the bag opened. Thoroski reached into the bag, withdrawing a bundle of towels.
"Everything in the bag, sir."
"You'll be busted for this, Patrolman. To the Borantium Cinnabar Mines this time."
Parks laughed. "Oh no, sir. This time I'm going to be promoted. Take the bag off the girl."
"Hold it!" a voice snapped.
Thoroski looked past Parks. Three patrolmen were standing beside the third classer. One wore the stripes of a sublieutenant, another a lieutenant and the third was a sergeant. Thoroski saw Parks' grin broaden.
"Good evening, sir. I just caught Strike Commander Thoroski trying to smuggle a prisoner off the battlecruiser --"
"We heard," the lieutenant said shortly. He pointed with one thumb. "We got an aircar over there. Everybody into it. Move!"
Thoroski got slowly to his feet, his helmet swinging in one hand. This was it, then. After all he'd done, he'd failed.
Parks glanced at him and laughed. The tall, muscular sublieutenant leaned down and picked up the laundry bag.
The aircar was parked on the dark landing field, and a patrolman third class was seated behind the controls. No lights showed on the little vehicle. Parks gestured to Thoroski, who got slowly into the rear seat. Parks followed him, his blaster still out and covering his Strike Commander, followed by the sergeant. The other two men slid into the front seat, the sublieutenant still holding the laundry bag. The driver turned on the lights, started the car, and they lifted from the landing field.
The driver glanced at the laundry bag. "Well, sir, did we hit the jackpot?" he inquired in a voice with a distinct Terran accent.
The sublieutenant was peeling the laundry bag gently back. Lyn's face came into view.
"Yep," he said. "Eureka. Hi, honey."
The lieutenant's blaster was suddenly out and pointed at Parks, and the sergeant's weapon dug into the patrolman's ribs. He reached over to remove the blaster from Parks' hand. "Freeze, Mister Parks."
Parks stared open-mouthed. "What the hell are you --"
The sublieutenant's grin broadened in a smile that would have made Thoroski extremely nervous had it been turned on him. He still wasn't sure what was going on, but it was obvious that the situation was not what he had first thought.
"Well, well," the sublieutenant said. "This is almost too good to be true. I been wantin' t'meet you again for months, Mister Parks." He held Lyn tightly in one arm. "Did he hurtcha, honey? I saw him kick you."
She shook her head, put her face against the black-clad shoulder and closed her eyes. The arm about her tightened and the sublieutenant reached up with his free hand and removed his helmet, revealing the blond, handsome features of Strike Commander Mark Linley. "Howdy, Mister Parks."
Thoroski felt himself begin to grin in sheer relief. The lieutenant shoved up his visor. "Hi, Sven," he said.
"Kev! Oh man, am I glad to see your ugly mug!"
"We're coming up on the gate," the driver said.
"Right," Bronson said. He flipped his blaster to stun and fired. Parks slumped back in the seat and Bronson replaced his visor. Linley set the helmet back on his head and lowered Lyn to the floor of the vehicle. A moment later, the sentries waved them through.
Thoroski wiped his forehead. "Where did you guys drop from? I thought we'd had it!"
Linley lifted Lyn to his lap once more. "Feel all right, honey?"
She nodded, beaming at him. "Fine. Sven took good care of me."
Bronson pulled off his helmet and raised an eyebrow at Thoroski. "Betcha he enjoyed every minute of it, too."
Thoroski threw a light punch at him. "Yeah, I did."
Lyn went pink. "He was a perfect gentleman, Kevin!"
Bronson's grin widened. Lyn looked back at Thoroski. "What about Greg?"
"Holy space! I forgot about him!"
"Who?" Bronson asked.
"I had an assistant," Thoroski said. "Underground agent. He was helping me. He'd gone to get an aircar for us."
"Well, we can't go back, now," Linley said. "What'll he do when you don't show up?"
"He'll look around, I suppose, and then report to his boss. I'm not sure. He's an elusive young man."
"Greg," Bronson said thoughtfully. "Seems I remember...." He frowned. "Didn't you have a valet named Greg? What was it...Smith? Smythe! That was it. Greg Smythe. Nice kid. Don't tell me --"
Thoroski nodded, grinning faintly. Bronson began to laugh. "The Underground planted a spy on you as your valet, huh?"
"Yeah," Thoroski said. "Makes me wonder how many others they've done it to."
"At least one," the sergeant said. He pulled off his helmet and Thoroski found himself looking into the face of Ronald Griffen, Mark Linley's successor as Strike Commander of the "Wolverine", and the second Strike Commander to defect to the Terran Underground, this time taking his battlecruiser along for good measure. Griffen was smiling ruefully. "Don't feel too bad, Sven. How do you think Westover got aboard the "Wolverine" the time we were transporting Kaley to Toomelli's Moon? Makes me feel a little better, knowing it happened to you, too."
Linley gave a bark of laughter. "Well, if it helps, you guys ain't the only ones. I was stung, too, an' there's at least one Base Commander I know of that's got an Underground valet right now. Can't tellya who, though."
Thoroski began to laugh. "You guys are a lot more organized than I thought!"
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Linley said.
Parks groaned, turning his head. Linley glanced at him. "Now, he said, "about Mister Parks...."
"He's mine," Thoroski said. "You can't have him."
"Uh uh!" Linley said. "He's all mine. This is the trencher that gave Alan such a hard time after he'd been through three damned interrogations. I'm gonna --" He glanced at Lyn. "But first we gotta get Lyn back to the ship. There's Lew, waitin' for us."
Parks groaned again, beginning to gag. The aircar lost altitude and alighted beside another, smaller civilian vehicle. The driver cut the engine and got out. Linley also got out, lifted Lyn carefully from the seat and transferred her to the other man.
"What are you going to do, Mark?" she asked timidly.
"None o' your business, honey." He wrapped his coat around her. "You just let Kurt and Lew take you back to our ship. Alan's waitin' there for you."
He turned and re-entered the Patrol car, while Kurt, whoever he was, carried her toward the other car.
**********
tbc
