The Pirate Prince
Part One: A Slight Deception
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
1/?
Chapter 1
The final bell rang, and Jason Sweeney stood up, shouldering his backpack full of books.
Before he could turn to follow the others out the door, however, the teacher motioned to him. "Jason?"
"Yes sir?"
"I'd like to speak to you a moment."
Jason went up to the desk. "Yes sir?"
The rest of the class was filing from the room. Jason's best friend, Mike Millins, passed, raising an eyebrow at him.
When the room had emptied, Jason's teacher nodded to a chair. Jason sat down, folding his hands in his lap. He waited. Mr. Lathrop picked up his Basic exam and glanced at it perfunctorily. Jason shifted uneasily. He knew he’d done well on the test. He always did.
"Basic is very easy for you, isn't it, Jason?"
Jason nodded. "Yes sir."
"Your exam is perfect — naturally."
Jason smiled.
"Where have you learned Basic before?"
Jason's smile vanished. Was his teacher accusing him of cheating? "I've never learned Basic, sir, but both my parents speak it."
"Indeed?”
"Yes sir."
"And where did they learn it?"
Jason looked at his instructor, surprised. "In school, I suppose, sir."
The teacher spoke suddenly in Basic. "They've never visited any of the worlds in the Autonomy?"
“I don't think so," Jason said, employing the same language. "My parents were both born here."
The instructor shook his head. "You sound just like a Jilectan. It's incredible.”
Jason smiled. "My mother says it's a gift. She and my dad both learn languages easily. Maybe I got it from them."
The instructor raised an eyebrow, glanced at the exam again and dropped it on a stack of corrected ones on the other side of his littered desk. "They speak other languages besides English, then?"
"Yes sir."
“Hmm. Very fortunate for you, son. Most people have trouble with Basic, you know."
"Yes sir."
The instructor was looking at him, his expression a little uncertain. "Jason, would you consider tutoring another student in this class?"
“Uh ... yes, okay, sir." It wasn’t the first time Jason had been asked to lend a hand to a struggling fellow student. "Who?"
"That's why I hesitated to ask. Morris Meade?"
"Morris?" Jason considered, without enthusiasm, the prospect of tutoring his huge, hulking, not-too-bright classmate. Morris was five years his senior, having flunked two grades, while Jason had been moved up three times. "He’s ... uh ... older than I am, sir."
"And a good deal larger. I know. Would it make, you uncomfortable?"
Jason thought it over. "Well, it wouldn't make me uncomfortable, but I don't know about him, sir."
"Do you two get along well?"
"Uh ... we get along okay, sir. He’s not one of my best friends, but we've never had any major disagreements. Our interests are sort of different."
"Yes." The teacher smiled faintly. "Considering the age, difference, that’s not too surprising. How old are you, Jason?"
"I just turned eleven."
A pause. "Have you been tested for the gifted children program, Jason?"
"We had our aptitude tests two weeks ago, sir. I haven't heard anything."
Another pause. Then, "Well, Jason, I would appreciate your help with Morris, if you’re willing to give it. Twice a week should be sufficient." His voice fell. "You probably already know that Morris has failed Basic twice."
Jason did know. Morris was not one to keep his grievances a secret. "Yes sir, I know. I'll be glad to help him if I can. I just hope it doesn't make him mad that you picked me."
"I'll see that he cooperates." Mr. Lathrop smiled faintly. "I'll speak to him about it tomorrow. If there's any trouble, you’re to let me know."
“Yes sir."
"Thank you, Jason." The Basic instructor picked up a stylus and turned his attention again to the papers on his desk. "Recevin dovint, Jason."
“Recevin dovint, Tota Lathrop." Jason hefted his books and went to the door.
Mike was waiting for him, expression curious. "What'd he want?"
Jason glanced around. The halls were nearly deserted now. Only an occasional student passed, laden with books, or clad in a sports uniform for after school practice. Morris went by, wearing the gear of a football halfback. He looked tremendous in his shoulder pads, helmet swinging from one hand. Jason swallowed.
"What'd he want?” Mike repeated .
"I'm going to be tutoring Morris in Basic." Jason spoke in a low voice.
Mike glanced after the retreating figure. "The Incredible Bulk, huh? Flunking out again, I'll bet."
“Well ... Mr. Lathrop didn't say that ... "
“What else? He isn't going to like the idea much. He’ll probably cream you."
The possibility had already occurred to Jason. "Mr. Lathrop says he’ll talk to him."
"Like talking to a rock. Lotsa luck, pal."
"Thanks." Jason sighed.
Jason's size was his one major handicap in his success in school. Academically he was an excellent student, and had been moved ahead at least once in every subject. He supposed it would be too much to expect to be both smart and tall, but darn it, sometimes it was humiliating. Even the girls dwarfed him — although it was true that most of his classmates were at least two years older, than he. Mike, himself, was thirteen.
"Worrying?" Mike slapped him on the back. "Don't. You can handle it okay. Brains against brawn — no contest."
Jason gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."
They emerged from the building. The shuttle was waiting, and Mike glanced at him. "You coming?"
"No, I'll walk." Jason rarely took the shuttle. It was less than a kilometer to his home, anyway, and he enjoyed his moments of solitude. "Recevin dovint, Meek."
"Bye, Genius." Mike boarded the shuttle.
Jason headed home, walking slowly, lost in thought. He hoped sincerely that Morris would be receptive to his new tutor. Oh, well, no use worrying about it. Jason could probably handle him, as Mike had said. Jason had never had any trouble making friends. The other kids all liked him — even the bullies. It was another gift he possessed, in addition to his talent with languages.
Again his thoughts went to his parents. His mother was particularly gifted in the ability to learn a new language. She hardly had to work at it at all. Jason hadn’t told his teacher, but Mrs. Sweeney spoke seven different languages, and was presently learning Greek. Already she spoke it like a native, and was teaching it to her children.
His mother — Jason hoped she was feeling better now. She'd been in the hospital for a week following a nearly fatal automobile accident. Another car had swerved at her out of the adjacent traffic lane and Mrs. Sweeney had had to dive madly to miss it. Her car had gone out of control and crashed, but Jason's mother had managed to get out only seconds before it exploded. The police had said that it was a miracle she had survived.
Jason strolled on, deliberately turning his thoughts from the incident. The circumstances had bothered him, but he couldn't imagine why. The police had assured the family that the fellow in the other car had no doubt been drunk, and that eventually he would be arrested. His mother was out of the hospital now, too, and out of danger, although still a bit weak from her ordeal.
It was a sunny day — brisk and cold — typical weather for Bellian in November, in a few days, undoubtedly, there would be a snowstorm, Christmas was next month, and Jason knew that his father was getting him a new pair of ice skates. He could hardly wait…
He reached the end of the block and crossed the street into the vacant lot behind an abandoned house. The frozen ground crunched beneath his tennis shoes, and he paused for a moment to examine a discarded gum wrapper caught in the tangled weeds. He read the cartoon, then tossed the wrapper down again.
"Hey, kid!"
Jason looked up. A police vehicle was parked beneath a ragged, leafless tree, six meters away, and an officer was emerging. "Don't you know there's a law against littering?"
Jason bent quickly, picking up the gum wrapper and stuffing it into his coat pocket, "Gee, I'm sorry, sir."
The man was striding briskly toward him, and Jason felt an odd sensation of alarm. He took a quick step backward. "What do you want?"
"Get in the car, kid. We're going to have to speak to your parents about this."
“What? Why? I'm sorry. Good grief it wasn't even my gum wrapper…” The sensation of alarm was intensifying; Jason took another step back, then turned to run.
There was an odd humming sound, and an electrical tingle washed over him. Vaguely, incredibly, he realized that the officer had stunned him.
He didn't remember hitting the ground,
Chapter 2
“Alan? Wake up, kid,"
Alan Westover opened his eyes. The blurred face of his partner, Mark Linley, was before him. Alan groaned.
“Kid?”
“Yes, Mark." Alan pushed himself to his elbows, and Linley slipped a hand behind his shoulders, supporting him. "What's the matter?"
“Kaley wants us — says it's an emergency. Holy hell, kid! You look awful!"
"I feel worse." Alan managed to get his feet over the side of the bed. “Better back up, Mark. I don't want you to catch this thing."
"I had the Drevelle flu seven years ago on Shallock."
“Well they aren't sure it's the same one, you know." Alan cleared his throat and swallowed with difficulty. "Viruses mutate like crazy."
"Besides, I got my flu shot last August. I ain't gonna catch the thing."
"Famous last words." Alan groaned, tried to stand up, then fell back across the bed. "Tell Kaley I'm too sick."
Mark was silent, and Alan opened his eyes, pushing himself upright again. "Hey, what is it?"
"Kaley's pretty worried. I got a feelin' it’s real important."
"Do you know what it's about?" Alan felt a sudden stab of alarm. "Is Lyn okay?"
"She’s fine, kid — sick, but fine. It isn't about her." He helped Alan stand up. “Think you can make it?"
"Sure." Alan clutched the bedside table for support. He was on his fourth day of the virus, and was actually feeling a good deal better than he had yesterday at this time. The chronometer on his bedside table informed him that it was 1040 Lavirra time. He'd been asleep for over twelve hours.
Mark removed a freshly laundered uniform from the closet. "I don't think Kaley'd insist if it wasn't pretty important."
"It's okay." Alan took the uniform and sat down on the bed again. "Couldn't somebody else handle this, though?"
"Not accordin' to Kaley. He told me to go getcha, an' when I told him how lousy you still looked, he just gave me that unnervin' stare o' his an' said that it was real important — a matter o' life an' death — or somethin' like that." Mark paused. "He sounded sorta upset."
"*Kaley* sounded upset?"
"Sorta scary, huh?" Mark helped him pull off the pajamas and held the uniform for him. Alan struggled into it, thinking sourly that this was the price of being the only Armageddon Team in the Terran Underground. Alan was a powerful psychic, and when in the presence of either Mark Linley, or Mark's half brother, Kevin Bronson, his power increased dramatically. The psychic experts described a “link” between them, detectable by other psychics only with some effort. Alan, himself, could not feel the link at all, and to Mark and Kevin it only became apparent when Alan was frightened or badly hurt. At such times, the two men would "feel" Alan's mind within theirs, and all words he spoke could be easily heard. Distance didn't matter, nor did hyperspace. Alan's link with Mark, for some unknown reason was appreciably stronger and more sensitive than the one he held with Kevin.
The psychic experts were certain that other such persons as Mark and Kevin existed, but so far none had been found. The Underground was presently doing research trying to discover ways to detect the psychic power pack. Kevin, Mark and Alan were scheduled for a trip to Midgard in a little over a month's time, to see a Dr. Donovan Worley for that very purpose. Alan, with his power packs, had a great advantage over other psychics, both Terran and Jilectan. The existence of such people as Kevin and Mark was a guarded secret of the Underground, which the Jilectans did not share, and all Underground members had firm instructions to maintain that secret at all costs.
Alan sighed as he sealed his trim, grey uniform jacket. It made him feel important to be the only one of his kind, but it did have its inconvenient moments.
Mark held a boot for him, and Alan shoved his foot in, wincing as sore muscles protested. He wanted to go see Lyn. Lyn Parnell, who was his conscious psychic partner, was still recovering from a blaster burn received in a skirmish with the Patrol seven weeks ago. The wound, although almost healed now, had been deep and very nearly fatal. Still, weak from that injury, she had come down with the flu yesterday.
"Worryin' about Lyn?" Mark inquired.
Alan nodded. "I should go see her." Telepathically he reached for her, and their minds touched instantly. Lyn was asleep, and he could feel the heat of fever through the link.
"Not now, kid. Kaley's waitin’. She's okay. I checked on her before comin' over here. Matt was with her, an’ he said she was gonna be okay."
"All right." Alan slipped on his remaining boot and followed Linley out into the corridor and toward the exit.
The sun was shining brightly as they emerged onto the slidewalk, which bore them swiftly toward the cluster of buildings across the compound. Kevin Bronson was waiting at the door of Kaley's outer office. He glanced at Alan with concern. “Man, kid! You look like hell!"
"Thanks a lot," Alan said. He felt rather faint.
"I called the mess an’ had 'em bring over some orange juice for you. Sound okay?"
“Yeah, thanks."
As they entered the outer office, Ruby, Kaley's secretary, glanced up, her brow furrowing. "Good morning. My goodness, Alan! You look terrible!"
"I know," Alan croaked.
"Go on in. The General's waiting for you."
They obeyed. Kaley, seated behind his wide, well polished desk, looked up. “I’m very sorry, Colonel," he began, "to call you when you're feeling so unwell. Dear me! You do look rather ill. Here, sit him down in the armchair, Colonel Linley."
Mark lowered Alan into the large, vinyl covered chair and pressed the control on one armrest. With a soft purr, the back of the chair reclined.
"Here, kid.” Kevin handed him the glass of orange juice.
"Thanks." Alan sipped, feeling the juice burn as it touched his raw throat. The cook had also provided him with two rather elderly appearing slices of toast and jelly. Alan pushed them aside, feeling slightly nauseated. Linley removed them discreetly.
“We have an emergency, Colonel Westover," Kaley began. "No doubt you've heard that children have been vanishing on Bellian — particularly in the vicinity of New Brunswick."
Alan had heard something about it. He nodded.
"The children disappear without trace," Kaley continued. "And the problem is becoming critical."
Mark cleared his throat. "There' s plenty o’ tracers in the Underground, sir. Why pick on Alan?"
"The tracers we’ve sent have come up with nothing," Kaley said. "The children are apparently being removed from the planet very shortly after they disappear. They appear to be all types of children, ranging in age from four to seventeen, both male and female, and from all racial backgrounds. But they do have several striking traits in common — traits which drew our attention to them. All of them are excellent students, well liked by their teachers and peers. Many of the same family members have vanished. But the most interesting aspect of this kidnapper is that he appears to choose children who are noticeably short for their age."
Bronson whistled. "Psychics," he said, unnecessarily.
“We believe that is the case," Kaley said. "So far an incredible number of these children have been found to have at least one psychic parent. Also, in homes where no psychics were found, there has usually been a recent death or separation. All, I repeat, all of the deaths have been through apparent accidents or suicides. In a few homes, an accident had occurred where death had not resulted, and in these, the parent involved was found to be a psychic. The separations, we discovered upon investigation, seem to occur suddenly, with no sign of trouble beforehand. The parent simply vanishes, leaving a note, and has not been heard from since."
Alan felt cold in spite of his fever. "How are these children being spotted, sir?"
"We’re still investigating it, Colonel," Kaley replied. "We have reason to believe, however, that they’re being identified through tests which are somehow being distributed to the New Brunswick school district — tests which have been skillfully altered to single out psychics. It wouldn’t be hard. The only catch is that all testing material distributed to the schools there is processed through the New Brunswick Board of Aptitude and Education. There are no exceptions."
Mark glanced at Alan. "Must be an inside job.”
“We think so," said Kaley. “We believe the Jilectans have planted someone in the building — someone who is altering the tests and programming the computers to okay these tests. Whoever this person is, there's a good chance that he works in the main office on Roncoth Street in downtown New Brunswick. That is where he would have access to the main computers. We have, however, sent several powerful telepaths through the building, having them do probes on all employees. We've found nothing.
Suddenly Alan was very angry. He pressed the control on the arm of the chair, bringing himself upright so suddenly that for a moment his head spun. Anyone who would purposely give children to the Jilectans deserved to die!
Kaley was looking at him. “Do you think you could locate the Jil plant, Colonel?"
"I can sure try, sir!"
"You're our last hope, Colonel. With Colonel Linley and Captain Bronson, too, should you need him, Major Burke feels that you should be able to go through any ordinary person's shielding."
"Do you think the Jils have given this guy shieldin’, sir?" Kevin asked incredulously.
"It’s probable, Captain," Kaley replied. "It’s been to our advantage so far that the Jilectans are too proud to provide their servants with shielding, but it's quite possible that our luck has now run out in that area."
"An' it's also possible," Linley put in, "that the Jils'll simply get ridda this guy once he's outlived his usefulness. They won't want no one around who can implicate ‘em in somethin' like this. Might cause a war."
"You are correct, Colonel," Kaley said. He glanced at Alan. "Do you have any questions, Colonel Westover?"
"When do we leave?"
"Your scout is ready. You're to contact Major Thomas Steed at the Lakeside station. He'll provide you with the necessary I.D. and disguises. It’s a seventy hour trip, so I suggest you leave at once. More children are vanishing every day." He harrumphed. "I do appreciate this, Colonel, especially considering your illness. Perhaps you will be feeling better by the time you arrive."
**********
tbc
