Defector: 13/13
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XIV
Kurt McDougal settled Lyn onto the rear seat of the civilian aircar, shut the door and went around to get into the passenger seat beside Lewis Stevens. He removed his Patrol helmet with a sigh of relief and ran his fingers through his hair. "Glad to get that off." He turned to look over the back of the seat at Lyn. "Are you comfortable, Lyn?"
"I'm fine," she said. "I was just so glad to see all of you. What happened to Alan?"
"He had a little accident while we were on Corala," Kurt said. "He's going to be fine. He's waiting for you back at the ship."
"Who was helping her?" Steven inquired, as he started up the engine.
"Oh, just the Strike Commander of the ship," Kurt said with a grin. "I guess Lyn can tell us about it."
"What are they going to do with that patrolman?" Lyn asked.
Kurt had a pretty good idea, but he kept his shields up tightly. "I'm sure they'll let us know later," he said. "Let's get back to the ship. Alan's going to be pretty glad to see you."
**********
Parks was awake when Mark slid into the passenger seat of the aircar. Kevin now occupied the driver's seat but he hadn't started the engine.
Mark waited until the door slid shut, then he turned and looked back at his former crewman. "Now, Mister Parks, about Alan--"
Bronson looked at the man, too, his mouth a grim line. "Yeah, mister, what's this I hear about you razzin' Alan after he'd been in the chair?"
Griffen's expression darkened. "You lousy trenchcrawler!"
"He's mine," Thoroski said. "This stinking trencher killed my little sister, and he's going to die for it."
Parks' jaw dropped. "Your sister! I didn't --"
"That pretty dark-haired girl you shot back on Bacquan. She died in my arms, if you'll remember."
Parks gulped. "That was your sister?"
"Yeah!" Thoroski said savagely. "My baby sister, Helena. She was only nineteen. I tried to take care of you on Ranlach, mister. Too bad for you that Dooley interrupted me."
Parks gulped again. Linley glanced at Thoroski. "Guess we'll just have to share him."
"Aircar on the scanner," Kevin said suddenly. "Holy space! That's a Jil official car!"
Two blasters centered on Parks. The car settled into the street before them, and the driver's door opened. A short, blond young man, clad in a dark red outfit of a Jilectan's chauffeur got out and strode toward the Patrol car. Bronson's blaster turned toward him.
"Wait," Thoroski said. "That's Greg."
The young man leaned in the driver's window and grinned, reaching up to touch his soft, dark red chauffeur's cap. "Ah, I see you're all right, Strike Commander. How do you do, Colonel Linley; Major Griffen. Lieutenant Bronson and I have met before."
"Yeah," Bronson said. "Hi, Greg. Long time, no see. Howya been doin'?"
"I've been doing fine, sir." He turned to Thoroski. "Well, Strike Commander, since you won't be needing me any longer, I'll be taking my well-deserved leave."
"Where'd you get that car?" Thoroski asked.
The young man glanced at the vehicle. "That? Lord Pomothvor's official car, you know. It was just sitting in front of Administration. The chauffeur's stunned and tied up in the trunk. I read the poor guy's mind. He was plenty sore that his boss was going to be so long, and he hadn't even brought a book to read, so I gave him something else to occupy his attention. I picked up the car and the fellow's uniform and started back toward the rendezvous point, when I suddenly got the distinct impression that all was not well. I went back to the ship and saw you getting into the Patrol aircar. Knowing the Underground, I suspected strongly that they'd sent help. So I followed you. I'll be heading for the spaceport now, Strike Commander. Be seeing you." He nodded respectfully at the three apparent patrolmen.
An idea occurred to Mark, and he spoke suddenly. "You gonna need that car anymore, kid?"
Smythe looked back at the vehicle. "No; I'm going to take an air taxi to the port. Why?"
"Can we use it?"
Greg nodded amiably. "Sure, Colonel. It's all yours. Have fun." He sketched a salute and turned away.
"Whatcha got in mind?" Bronson asked.
"What makes you think I got anythin' particular in mind?"
"Cause you always look like that when you're hatching hell," Griffen said bluntly. "Spill."
Linley's teeth flashed in a broad, not particularly pleasant grin. "I was thinkin' that a Patrol car wouldn't have much chance o' gettin' onto the Viceregal estate, but a Jil's car is different. We still gotta return Lord Revolthvor to the bosom of his lovin' family."
"Revolthvor?" Thoroski asked. "You've still got him?"
"Yeah. He's in the trunk." Bronson turned back to Linley. "Okay, let's hear it."
**********
"Here they come." Alan heard Lewis Stevens' voice over the intercom. "Looks like everything's good."
"Is Sven with them?" Lyn asked.
"Well, there's four of them," Kurt McDougal's voice said, "and by the size, they're all ex-trols, so I'd say he is."
"Good," Lyn said. "Parks killed Sven's sister, right in front of him. He didn't tell me, but I saw it in his mind when I probed him."
"Poor guy," Alan said. "I know how he feels. I thought for years that Jan had been killed, too."
"I wonder what happened to Parks," Lyn said softly.
Matt Philips, seated in the cabin's one chair, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Alan sighed. "They're all four 'trols. You know what happened to him."
"Yes," Lyn agreed reluctantly, after a short pause. "I suppose I do. I guess I can't really be sorry."
"Neither can I," Alan said. "Mister Parks and I have met a few times, too," he added noncommittally. "The Sector is probably better off without him in it."
There was a ring of boots on the ramp, and a babble of voices, followed by the clang of the closing hatch.
"Okay," Mark's voice said. "Let's beat it as soon as we can, Kurt. Don't want no one to get any ideas."
"You got it." Kurt sounded amused. The rumble of the skipper ship's engines began to vibrate through the deck, and Kurt's voice spoke again, obviously directed at the control tower. "Skipper ship 'Hera,' requesting clearance for takeoff."
There was the hum of an open circuit, and Matt Philips pulled the safety webbing across his lap.
"Skipper ship 'Hera,' this is Spaceport Traffic Control," a deep male voice said suddenly, "You are cleared for takeoff. Depart when ready on corridor nine."
Kurt acknowledged and a moment later Alan felt the heaviness of acceleration. After several endless seconds, the artificial gravity field clicked in.
"I wonder what happened," Alan said.
Lyn smiled a little wanly. "You know, I don't really care as long as everyone's all right."
There was a jolt as the ship converted to hyperspace. Matt undid his webbing, and as he stood up, Mark Linley appeared in the opening that led to the main passenger section of the little ship. "Hi, kids. Everybody okay?"
"We're fine," Alan said. "What happened?"
Linley grinned, obviously very pleased with himself. "The Jils are gonna be pretty burned up, I guess. Poor ol' Revolthvor's pride'll never recover."
"What did you do?"
"We sent him over the Halthzie's place, along with Pomothvor's chauffeur. He'll be fine, after he wakes up."
"Lord Pomothvor's chauffeur?"
"Yeah. He kinda leant us his boss's car. Poor soul was practically in tears when he realized what we were gonna do. I took off his restrainers and talked nice to him. He'll be okay." He looked at Matt Philips. "Well, doc, how are they?"
"They'll be fine," Philips said. "It'd take more than a rock garden to kill Alan, and the guy will have to aim better next time if he wants to kill Lyn."
"Not if I can help it," Lyn said. "Next time I'll be more alert."
Strike Commander Thoroski appeared in the doorway, Kevin Bronson and Griffen behind him. Linley beckoned the newcomer over beside him. "Here's the guy that made it all possible, kid. Sven Thoroski, of the 'Leviathan.'" He nodded at Alan. "I think you've met Colonel Westover before, Sven."
Thoroski nodded, and Alan sensed his discomfort. "How are you doing, Colonel? I'm afraid our last meeting wasn't very congenial."
Alan grinned a little, pushing himself up on one elbow, and extended his free hand. "It's Alan, Strike Commander. I'm fine. Banged my head when we were leaving the Drevelle Base Hospital. That's why I'm here, but I'm okay."
"Fractured his skull," Mark said. "Lie down, kid."
"Take it easy, Sven," Bronson interjected. "You were doin' your job. Alan don't hold it against you. He didn't blame me, and I caught him. 'Sides, you saved his girl. That makes up for a lot."
Thoroski smiled a little. "All right. You're more generous than I'd be, I think." He turned to Lyn. "How are you doing, honey?"
"I'm fine," Lyn said.
"Did Parks hurt you back there? I couldn't stop him."
"Not much," Lyn said. "I could almost see what he was doing, but I couldn't do anything about it. I just wasn't strong enough to grab his blaster. I tried."
"I wondered about that," Thoroski said. "You grabbed mine when Smythe showed up."
"You weren't holding it. He was, and tightly. I'm not nearly as good a telekinetic as Alan is."
"Don't let her kid you," Bronson said. "I've seen her. She's good."
"You don't have to tell me that," Thoroski said.
"You're gonna hafta tell us how you got her out o' the hospital," Bronson said. "That was a slick job."
"Sure," Thoroski said. "I guess you guys were right behind me, though. I heard about Chalthzor only a few minutes later." He glanced thoughtfully at Bronson, a faint frown on his face. "I do have a question that I've wondered about ever since you left the 'Leviathan' so abruptly, Kev. Chalthzor getting killed reminded me of it. I've thought about it on and off since it happened, and thought maybe the Jils had missed something important. Maybe you can clear it up for me."
"Maybe."
"I thought it was kind of interesting," Thoroski said, "back when Colonel Westover was a prisoner -- it seemed to me that every time he was put in the chair, *you* got sick. I didn't make the connection until after everything was over. Then it occurred to me that it had happened again. You were standing next to me in front of the platform, looking white as a sheet, and Parks pushed the button. I heard you groan and thought it was happening again. Then you blasted Tralthvor, and I sort of forgot about it, but after all the fireworks died down, I thought it over. Were you crazy, or was I?"
Bronson snorted and looked at Alan. "I told you he was smart. Hope nobody else was that observant. We got plenty of time on the way back to Lavirra. We'll tellya all about it." His smile faded. "I'm really sorry about your sis, though."
Thoroski nodded soberly. "So am I. I just wish I'd woken up before. Parks was just a stupid tool. The Jils killed Helena. I'm going to make sure they pay for it as long as I'm able to."
Bronson nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I got the feelin' they will."
**********
The security guards at the entrance to the Viceregal estate looked quickly around at the soft purr of engines that announced the approach of an aircar. Patrolman Peter Laurens stood up and his eyes widened as the vehicle came tearing out of the night toward him, its headlights blazing against the dark and the pale mists of fog that floated in the air. The red and silver insignia on the sides proclaimed it an official Jilectan limousine, and it was headed straight for the gate, showing no sign of slackening its speed.
For any other sort of vehicle, the patrolmen would have taken no action but a Jilectan car was different. Trannir, Laurens' Arcturian companion, moved instantly to extinguish the force field and Laurens hit the alarm.
The aircar went screaming past. The videophone inside the guard shack shrilled and he turned quickly toward it.
"Emergency!" he shouted. "There's a Jil limo heading for the mansion like a meteor! Everybody out! Quick!" He dashed across the lawn toward the Patrol car and seconds later was in pursuit of the fleeing limousine.
He could see the taillights of the aircar ahead, and his scanners told him that it was finally beginning to slow down. A few moments later, it came to a gentle stop on the front lawn of the elegant building. Jilectans in formal dress, as well as hordes of servants, clad in the Viceregal livery, were pouring from every door, and the grounds were ablaze with lights. Laurens saw the Viceroy himself stride toward the car, his bodyguards scrambling to keep up.
Laurens leaped from his car almost before it came to a stop.
"Be careful, Your Highness!" he shouted. "It didn't even slow down at the gate. It could be rigged to blow up when the door is opened!"
Halthzor hesitated, glancing at him and then at the aircar. "Very well." He nodded at Laurens. "Open it, Patrolman."
Laurens gulped and slowly approached the vehicle. Halthzor and the others retreated to a safer distance. There was a waiting pause.
Laurens reached the car, trying to peer through the fogged window. He couldn't see much. He swallowed again and reached slowly for the door. It slid open at his touch.
The Viceroy was behind him. "What is it?"
"It's empty, sir."
"I can see that." Halthzor leaned forward suddenly. "What is that?"
Laurens took a second look and spotted what the ruler had already seen. A folded note lay on the seat, half-obscured by the chauffeur's auxiliary control console. Laurens reached down to pick it up.
Halthzor was apparently more impatient than he was prepared to admit. "What does it say?"
Laurens unfolded the note and read the message. He swallowed. "Sir --"
"Read it."
Laurens swallowed again. "'Dear Halthzie," he began. His voice tried to clog up and he cleared his throat.
"'Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Revolthvor's in the trunk,
We wish it was you.
Love,
Mark, Kev and Ron.'"
There was a silence. Then, Halthzor snatched the note from Laurens' hand and his lips were a thin line in his handsome face. He turned toward his other escort. "Open the trunk."
"Yes sir." The bodyguard reached into the car and pressed a button on the dashboard. With a faint click, the trunk lid lifted smoothly.
"M'lord!" Laurens had gone instinctively to the rear of the limousine, and now he pulled off his coat to spread it over the nude form of the Jilectan, slumbering peacefully within the trunk. He glanced over his shoulder to the persons crowding curiously up behind him. "Somebody help me!"
"Get a doctor!" Halthzor commanded, as four men lifted Revolthvor from the storage space. Another man pulled off his coat and wrapped it around the Jilectan.
Huddled against the rear of the cavity was the trembling form of a Terran. Laurens reached in, dragging the man upright. Horrified blue eyes blinked up at him. The man was clad only in his underwear and a too-large Patrol coat. He stared wildly at Laurens for a moment and then clasped the patrolman around the neck, sobbing incoherent words of terror.
"Take it easy, kid." Laurens set the man on his feet. Revolthvor was being carried toward the mansion, accompanied by a crowd of Jilectans, servants and patrolmen, but Halthzor remained behind. The Viceroy strode over to the Terran, who had so ignominiously accompanied Revolthvor, and effortlessly lifted him from the ground, bringing him up on a level with his face.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What happened?"
The man was limp in his grasp. "Oh sir...don't kill me!" he gasped. "I don't know what happened! Lord Pomothvor told me to wait for him outside the Loquin Base Administration Building! I'm his chauffeur, sir! And all of a sudden, I was waking up in the dark. I didn't know where I was. And then, after a while, someone opened the trunk -- four patrolmen, sir. Oh, sir, please don't kill me!" The man was babbling, now. "I was in restrainers when I woke up, and one of the patrolmen -- a sublieutenant, sir -- took them off. One of the others gave me his coat. Then they put His Lordship in and told me to lie still and I wouldn't be hurt. Oh, sir, I was afraid not to! They were all holding blasters! They closed the trunk and I felt the car take off. The next thing I knew, the trunk opened...." The man landed on his hands and knees as Halthzor released him. "Please sir...."
"Who were the patrolmen? Did you recognize any of them?"
The man shook his head. "No, sir, they had on their helmets and I couldn't see much of their faces. But the sublieutenant said he was Strike Commander Linley...." The chauffeur buried his face in his hands, beginning to sob again. Halthzor stared down at him a moment longer and then turned toward his patrolmen.
"Search the car for any clues to the criminals," he ordered, and strode toward the mansion.
Laurens bent over the chauffeur again and helped him to his feet. "Come on, kid," he said, and led the young man toward his aircar.
**********
Epilogue
The door to the Strike Commander's quarters on the battlecruiser, "Leviathan" opened and Greg Smythe looked up as Sven Thoroski stepped inside. The young man's face was impassive, but Thoroski thought he could see the hint of a smile in his blue eyes.
"Have a good vacation, sir?"
"Yes, thanks, Greg." Thoroski regarded his valet with the faintest of grins. It had been the most instructive three-week vacation on his entire career, and the day before, Alan Westover had certified Thoroski as safe to return to the company of the Jilectans, The thought was both empowering and invigorating in a strange way. Thoroski's mind was unique, Westover had said. His mental shielding was completely undetectable by a psychic, Terran or Jilectan, if Thoroski so wished. A prying telepath would see exactly what Thoroski wanted him to see. Westover and other trained psychics possessed the ability to selectively shield, but never before had a non-psychic been found with the capacity to learn the technique. It was a good thing, he had added, that Thoroski had left behind no traces of his changed loyalties before his leave. As Strike Commander of the "Leviathan," he was in a position to do untold harm to the Jilectans. Man, he thought, if the Jils had any idea of what was really going on under their noses, they'd be scared out of their gilded panties!
Gregory Smythe took the bags from his hands and set them down beside the bunk, and then took the silver helmet as Thoroski removed it. "Coffee, sir?"
At his nod, Greg set the helmet in its place and presented his Strike Commander with a mug. Thoroski accepted it and sank onto his bunk, extending one booted foot. The valet knelt, starting to remove the footwear.
"I'll have time to shine them for you before takeoff, sir," he said. "You're not due in the control room for fifteen minutes."
"Thanks." Thoroski surveyed his valet, a little awed. Major Gregory Smythe, his commanding officer, pushed a footrest over beside him and Thoroski placed his feet on it. The valet smiled a little, not looking at him.
"I must say, sir, you look very much better than you did before your leave. I'd say your rest did you a world of good."
"I guess you could say that," Thoroski agreed.
"A shame about Mister Parks, though, sir." Smythe finished the first boot and started on the second one.
Thoroski took a long drink from his mug. The coffee was excellent. Gregory Smythe was one terrific valet.
"Yeah," he said. "A damn shame. Them Undergrounders are a real pain in the neck."
The End
