OUTLAW
Part 1: Mercenary
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright 1989
A young man sat tensely before the controls of the Terran skippership, his gaze returning frequently to his aft scanners. Nothing, so far. He mangled his lip as the seconds ticked away. The next few minutes would tell him if he'd managed to make his escape. The Patrol ship couldn't possibly track him through hyperspace, he told himself. There was no reason that he shouldn't be able to hide indefinitely on the frontier world. Midgard was sparsely populated on the northern continent, but the southern one was as yet completely empty of human habitation.
A musical bleep from the control board brought his attention back to the scanners. Yes, there it was, all right. The Patrol battlecruiser had just come out of hyperspace. Somehow they had guessed his destination and followed him. But how?
In hindsight, the answer was obvious. The skippership was low on power. His pursuers would have questioned the maintenance staff and discovered the fact. From it they must have deduced that the only star system within his reach was Alpha Centauri, a mere 4.3 light-years from Sol.
The spark on his screens grew and he drew a long breath, his mind racing in useless circles. This whole chase made no sense at all. He had done nothing to bring him to the attention of the law, certainly nothing that could possibly have offended the Jilectan Autonomy. He, Alan Westover, a common Earth kid, who had never seen a Jilectan in his life, had somehow aroused the enmity of the Jilectan Autonomy and he didn't have a clue how he had done it.
When Terra broke into interstellar space, three quarters of a century before, humanity had thought the final barrier to expansion crossed at last, and humans speedily colonized the habitable planets nearest Sol. But then, some two decades after they had reached the stars, the expanding Terran Confederation ran head on into the Jilectan Autonomy.
The Jilectans had entered space some two centuries before Terra. They were remarkably humanoid in appearance, and, except for size, resembled Terrans superficially, but they hailed from a planet of higher gravity and as a result were both stronger and faster than men. Upon reaching the stars they had discovered an astonishing fact. Although they possessed psychic powers, none of the intelligent species that they encountered, and eventually ruled, had any such abilities at all. The Jilectans accepted their privileged position readily, and before long, began to consider themselves unique among the intelligent life in the galaxy. They were a prolific species, and thus were forced to continually search for worlds able to support their people. By the time they met the Terrans, the Autonomy had been growing for two hundred Terran years. Jilectan Viceroys ruled the many sectors of the huge nation in the name of their Warlord, and the Viceroy of the newly colonized Rovalli Sector made peace with the Terran Confederation on the condition that Terrans colonize no more worlds without express permission from the Autonomy. Under pressure, the Terran government agreed.
Most Terrans suspected that the aliens regarded the fertile and hospitable worlds of the Terran Confederation with a certain covetousness, but there was little that could be done about it. Terra was forced into grossly unfavorable trade agreements by the more powerful nation, and eventually became at least partially resigned to her subordinate role in the scheme of things.
Alan knew these facts. Jilectan power was becoming more and more evident, even on Terra. Men and women were arrested in their homes by Viceregal patrolmen, and no one dared more than a token protest. Now it had happened to him. But why? What could he possibly have done for the Jilectans to send one of their mighty Patrol battlecruisers across the light-years in pursuit?
His communicator crackled suddenly, making him jump, and a harsh voice erupted from the speaker.
"Terran skippership! This is the Patrol battlecruiser 'Wolverine'! You are ordered to lay to and prepare for boarding!"
Alan was silent, chewing his lip. It was the final irony that the pursuing ship should bear a Terran name, but hardly surprising. These days many Terrans frequently became mercenaries in the Viceregal Patrol. Rank and power, difficult to obtain in this time, came frequently to the ambitious patrolman who distinguished himself before his masters. Although the Jilectans employed a variety of species, Terrans conformed closely to the requirements of size and mental makeup for the profession, and as a result now made up a sizeable percentage of the Jilectan armed forces in the Rovalli Sector.
"'Wolverine' to skippership, respond or be fired upon!"
Alan swallowed again and reached out to press a button on the panel. "This is the skippership."
A voice spoke in the background. "Got him, sir." Alan concentrated, making himself think consciously in the other language. The men were, of course, speaking Basic, the official language of the Jilectan Autonomy. All Terrans were required to learn at least a smattering of Basic. It was a difficult language to someone who had grown up speaking English, but Alan had learned it easily and well, just as he learned everything else.
"Alan Westover!" The third voice was a deep baritone, heavily accented, also speaking Basic. "This is Strike Commander Linley. I order you to surrender at once in the name of His Highness Lord Lanthzor, Viceroy of the Rovalli Sector. Cut your engines and surrender. Acknowledge!"
Alan did not acknowledge. He was busily checking his instruments. The battlecruiser was still out of range of his little ship. If he could just keep it that way, he might still have a chance.
"Acknowledge, Westover!" Linley's voice barked at him.
"Leave me alone!" he shouted angrily. "I haven't done anything!"
There was a short pause, then the voice resumed. "Surrender an' we won't hurtcha, mister. We gotcha on our scanners. You can't get away."
"You go to blazes!" Alan shouted.
Again the com spoke. "Give it up, Westover. You ain't gotta chance."
He slammed his hand down on the control, cutting off further communication, and tried to consider the situation calmly. The Strike Commander had been right. They were going to catch him. He was almost out of power, and the cruiser was gaining rapidly.
The misty planet swelled before him. Midgard was the third world in the Centauri system, and one of the ten planets the Terrans had colonized before their contact with the Jilectans. There was no real choice, of course. Another thirty minutes in space would exhaust his power and the Patrol would collect him at their leisure. With a sigh of resignation, he pressed a button and took manual control as the ship's nose slanted downward toward the hazy blue of the planet beneath.
There was a thin, rising whine as he entered the atmosphere, and he triggered the repulsers. Clouds blurred the viewscreen. Rain pattered sharply on the hull and lightning cracked suddenly across the nose of his tiny vessel. Alan glanced anxiously at the power meter. The display now registered only a fraction above zero but the scanners indicated land to the east, at least a hundred kilometers away. With a silent prayer, he turned the ship toward it.
With a suddenness that startled him, his ship emerged from the layer of clouds, revealing a rolling ocean below. He was within fifty kilometers of the shoreline when the engine's steady purr faltered, and his heart leaped into his throat.
But the comforting hum resumed and he let out his breath. Slowly, a dark line became visible on his screens.
The engine coughed again, then sputtered alarmingly, Alan found himself whispering frantically to the vessel, as though it was somehow alive and could hear him.
"Come on, baby, don't give out on me now! Just a little farther ..."
The engine went silent and Alan moved automatically, touching the control that would extend the glide wings. The ship stopped its downward plunge and leveled off. Ocean swept past beneath.
He wasn't going to make it. Over the water the upward currents that would have helped him were weak and few. His altitude dropped off, and the ocean rushed up to meet him.
The skippership splashed down about a kilometer from land, and the jar wasn't as bad as he'd expected. A wave lifted the vessel, tipping it sharply, and nearly capsizing him. Alan unsnapped his safety webbing and hurried back into the main body of the craft. As he pushed the manual control to open the airlock, another wave hit the ship, spinning it sideways. Water poured through the hatch, sending him staggering back. He fought his way desperately forward again, through the lock, and out into the open sea.
The temperature of the water surprised him. It was cold! Cold enough to take his breath away. His teeth began to chatter as he struggled on through liquid ice. Temperate, his Academy texts had stated concerning Midgard's climate. Maybe so, but he wondered abstractedly if the author of that text had ever actually been to the planet.
He took a moment to recover from the shock of the frigid water, and then struck out for the shore. His shoes were heavy and waterlogged, slowing him down, but he hesitated to abandon them. When he reached land he would have to run, probably through underbrush and over broken ground. But if the Patrol ship arrived before he could make it, such considerations wouldn't matter.
The problem was solved for him. A wave hit him, tossing him forward, and suddenly his left shoe was gone. He grabbed for it, but his fingers closed on nothing. Well, he could hardly run with only one shoe. With a sigh, he paused and removed the other one, letting the sea take it.
Swimming was easier after that. He felt light and buoyant as a ping pong ball in the salt water. Alan was a good swimmer, athletic and strongly built. He had no doubt of his ability to reach the shore. His one concern was that the Patrol ship would arrive before he could do so.
The fear of it leant him strength and he swam desperately, the strong current dragging him sideways. A breaker caught and lifted him, tossing him forward. As it crested, he saw the beach ahead, a smooth, empty expanse of white sand.
Another wave surged, and sand grated beneath his feet as it subsided. He staggered and splashed his way upward through shallow water, the breakers foaming around his legs. Then, clear over the crash of the waves and the patter of the falling rain, he heard the roar of the approaching Patrol ship.
Alan ran, his feet sinking deeply into the wet sand. They would see his footprints, of course. The Patrol would have to be blind to miss that beautiful, distinct line of tracks on the smooth, otherwise unmarked beach, but there was no way to cover the marks and no time to worry about it. The sand ended in a field of waving grass and small, bright flowers. Perhaps half a kilometer away a forest began, the trees dimly visible through the driving rain. Grass dragged maddeningly at his ankles, slowing down his progress, and something dug painfully into his heel. The rain fell steadily, but that was all to the good for the downpour might help to obliterate his trail. The Patrol ship was circling over the ocean where his vessel had gone down. The roar of the engines swelled in his ears.
Alan's foot descended on something small and stickery. He gave a yelp and fell, sprawling ungracefully forward and startling a flock of what appeared to be birds. The creatures flew away in all directions, screeching and squawking furiously. He lay still a moment, panting, then scrambled to his feet and ran on.
The forest was only meters away when the growl of the Patrol ship's landing mechanism reached him, and the throb of the engines rose in pitch. A glance back showed him that the ship was landing on the beach. He ducked under the first of the trees and paused to look back once more. The rain was letting up and figures moved on the beach, following his footprints up the wet sand. They reached the vegetation, dispersing into small groups that fanned out as they moved across the field toward the forest. Alan remained still for a moment, leaning against a tree and breathing hard. The rain fell softly around him, pattering on the leaves and undergrowth. The foremost patrolman could be seen clearly, now, his tall, muscular figure silhouetted against the cloud-draped sky. As Alan watched, the man's head turned slowly toward him and his voice could be heard, muffled by the falling rain. Alan turned and ran into the trees.
**********
Alan came to a gasping halt, clutching weakly at a tree for support. He had been fleeing since his arrival on Midgard, two days before, and his eyes were gritty and blurred from lack of sleep. The sun was sinking again, the woods were cold and filled with a shadowy dusk. Sweat prickled on his skin, and ran into his eyes.
The race was over. The Patrol was closing in. He could hear them clearly, for they were making no attempt to conceal the noise of their approach. The men must know he was near, and unable to run much farther.
"Straight ahead." He could hear the heavily accented voice plainly. "We've got 'im now. Man what a chase! The guy must be half marshhopper!"
"Man, sir, I don't see how you knew where he went." The second voice was also accented, but differently. "A bloodhound couldn't have followed him through that swamp!"
Alan staggered forward a dozen steps, stumbled, and fell with a noisy crash into the tangled underbrush.
"Hold it right there," a deep voice said clearly, and he froze.
"Keep your hands where I can see 'em. Search 'im Mac."
He lay still on his face, his head swimming. The muscles on his back tensed in anticipation of the blaster bolt that would burn the life from him, but it didn't come. There was a crunch of boots as the men approached, and a handlight spotlighted him. Hands patted his clothing and went through his pockets.
"He's clean, sir. Hey! His wallet's got a wad of credits ..."
"Hand it over. Okay, Bud, on your feet. Keep your hands up."
Alan managed to get to his knees, and swiveled around to face the patrolmen.
The light played over him. "I said on your feet!" The command had a bite in it -- the voice of someone who is accustomed to having orders obeyed without question.
It was too much effort. He tried and didn't make it, sinking back to his knees, half-sobbing with fatigue and terror. The patrolman stepped forward, grasped his collar, and pulled him upright. Vaguely, Alan was aware of a very tall man clad in a black and scarlet of the Viceregal Patrol, the dark visor concealing his eyes and red rank markings, indicating that he was an officer, slashed on the silver dome of his helmet. Behind him stood the form of another patrolman.
The grip on Alan's collar loosened and he sank back to his knees. The forest began to revolve around him in slow, lazy circles.
"Holy hell!" He heard the officer's voice through the buzzing in his ears. "He's nothin' but a kid!"
A dark mist was gathering before his eyes. He heard the patrolmen speaking, their voices faint and indistinguishable. Then the voices faded away, and there was nothing at all.
II
Voices in the darkness, and warmth. Sunlight on his upturned face. Alan shrank away from the voices, for even half-conscious as he was, he knew what they meant. They had caught him at last. He was a prisoner.
"He's coming to, sir."
Alan kept his eyes closed, trying uselessly to sink back into oblivion.
"Wake up, kid."
The voice was familiar. Against his will his eyelids lifted and he stared around, trying to orient himself.
There were restrainers on his wrists, and he lay face up on the forest floor, covered with a thin, military blanket. The Patrol officer was standing over him, and Alan knew that behind that dark visor the man was watching him. He counted four slashes on the silver helmet, and above the rank markings was the black-etched star of a Strike officer. He was in the presence of the ship's Strike Commander.
"Rise and shine, kid. You've been out for nearly twelve hours." The man spoke with that heavy, distinctive accent that Alan had noted before. Another patrolman appeared behind the officer. Alan glanced around, but could see no one else.
"Feelin' better?" the officer asked.
He didn't reply, but lay still, blinking up at the figures. He felt strangely light-headed and detached from his surroundings -- the effect of his exhausted sleep and no food, he supposed. The patrolman bent down, grasped his arm, and pulled him to a sitting position. The scenery around him tipped as he came upright and began to spin slowly. He grabbed for support with his cuffed hands and found himself gripping the man's forearm.
"Easy, there. Take a couple o' deep breaths." The patrolman spoke over his shoulder to his companion. "Mac, get the kid some coffee."
"Yessir." The patrolman moved to the small fire kindled in the center of the small clearing.
Alan's surroundings were steadying and he released the officer's arm, a little embarrassed. The patrolman didn't appear to notice. He let Alan go and stood up, surveying his prisoner again. "What'd you do, kid?" he asked.
"Huh?" Alan looked up at him, surprised.
The Strike Commander turned away, pulling off his helmet as he did so, and strode over to the campfire. Squatting beside it, he rummaged through a pack of supplies. "What'd you do t'make the Jils wantcha so bad?"
Alan shook his head. "Nothing."
The other patrolman was squatting beside him, offering him a cup of coffee. He laughed wryly. "Seems I've heard that song before. If you were innocent, why did you run?"
Alan took the mug. The officer pulled a can of field rations from the pack and stood up, turning to face his prisoner. Alan saw his features for the first time and was surprised to realize that the man was much younger than he'd expected -- probably no more than ten years older than Alan, himself. He was also strikingly good looking, with waving, blond hair and dark, blue eyes -- the lady-killer type, Alan thought, resentfully.
The officer was looking at him quizzically. "Well?"
"Well, what?" He sipped from the mug and choked. The coffee was strong and very bitter, grabbing at his throat. Scalding liquid spilled on his hands.
"Careful, kid." The officer was beside him, taking the mug. "Didja burn yourself?"
"It's okay." He sucked his scalded palm.
The officer set down the can he held and reached out to remove the restrainers from his prisoner's wrists. "Well, kid?" he repeated. "Why'dja run?"
"Because I was scared," Alan replied, defensively. "What would you have done if a bunch of guys waving blasters had come charging after you?"
The man grinned, good-naturedly. "Run," he admitted. "How 'bout you, Mac?"
Mac shrugged. "I guesso, sir." He was, Alan noted, covering him with his blaster.
"An' you didn't do nothin', kid?" The officer looked back at Alan. "Think hard."
"What do you think I've been doing since this whole thing started?" Alan demanded. "There's nothing!"
"It'll come back to you during interrogation," Mac said, cheerfully.
"Interrogation?" Alan felt the blood drain from his face.
"Shuddup, Mac," the officer said, turning to toss the restrainers over beside his helmet. "Here." He extended the can toward his prisoner. "Eat up. We gotta be movin'."
Alan stared at the can. "But I haven't done anything!"
Mac laughed, his blaster never wavering. "Eat, kid. We've got to go. The Jil's waiting."
"Jil?" He dropped the can and started to stand up.
The officer caught his wrist, pulling him back down. "Sit still."
Alan tried to jerk his wrist free. "Let me go, blast you! I haven't done anything!"
"Siddown." The officer didn't raise his voice, but Alan stopped struggling, staring at him.
"Siddown," the man repeated.
He sat. "But ..."
"Eat," Mac said.
The officer put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Better eat somethin', kid," he advised. "You'll feel better if you do." He picked up the can of rations, extending it once more to Alan. "C'mon. Things won't seem half so bad once you got somethin' in your stomach."
Reluctantly, the boy accepted the offering and began to eat. After his first bite he hesitated no longer, but wolfed down the contents of the can. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. The officer sat back on his heels, watching him, and Mac kept his weapon pointed in the prisoner's direction.
Alan finished the can and looked up, smiling shyly at the officer. "Thanks."
The man nodded. "Want some more?"
"Yes, please. I'm starved."
"Figured you would be." He glanced at Mac, who dug through the supplies, pulling out another can.
"We ought to be going, sir." The patrolman tossed the can to the officer. "His Lordship's going to be impatient."
"Let the kid fill up." The officer opened the second can, handing it to Alan. "He'll be able to move faster if he's in good shape."
Mac shrugged.
Alan was halfway through the second can, beginning to notice, at last, what he was eating. It was some kind of salted meat, mixed with a flaccid, soggy, potato-like vegetable. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He'd been hungry enough to eat shoe leather. He finished the can and picked up his mug again, regarding the contents warily. "This coffee's terrible."
"Yeah, I know." The officer laughed. "That's Patrol rations, kid."
"Can I have some water instead?"
"Sure." The man unhooked the canteen from his belt. "Here you go. Drink up."
"Thanks," Alan said again, and swigged from the container. He'd been almost as thirsty as hungry.
The officer stood up, retrieving his canteen. "Okay, time to go. Oh, by the way, you're under arrest, kid. I'm the arrestin' officer -- Strike Commander Linley, Viceregal Peace Patrol. He's Patrolman MacKinzie."
Alan looked at the other patrolman sullenly, noting almost absently the marks of a first classer on his helmet. MacKinzie grinned, starting to holster his blaster. Linley grinned, too.
"Don't blame you for bein' sore, kiddo, but there ain't no point bein' sore at us. It's our job, that's all,"
"I guess," Alan said, sullenly. "What am I supposed to have done?"
"I was hopin' you'd be able t'tell us," Linley said.
"You mean you really don't know?" Alan stared at him in surprise.
Linley shook his head. "Nope. All I can say is it musta been somethin' good. Ol' Lord Salthvor sure is itchin' t'get his hands on you."
"I don't understand," Alan said. "You were sent to catch me. Didn't he tell you why?"
Linley shook his head again. Alan nodded slowly. "He sure must trust you a lot."
Linley's face darkened, and MacKinzie took a step forward. "Careful, sonny," he growled. "You're talking to my Strike Commander."
Linley glanced at the man. "Cool down, Mac." He glanced back at Alan. "The Jils don't tell us everythin' kid. All I know is your name, and that you've evidently been a very naughty boy."
Alan was silent.
"You *are* Alan Westover, ain'tcha?" Linley inquired.
He nodded reluctantly.
The Strike Commander was looking at him, an odd expression on his face. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"You look younger," Linley said, abruptly. "Okay, on your feet. Time's a'wastin'."
Alan stood up. "Are we walking?"
"We have to -- least 'til we get to the swamp. No place to land a scout in this jungle. But you ain't in no hurry, are you?"
"No," Alan said.
The man's grin was magnetic, and against his will Alan found himself returning it. Linley turned away and strode over to the restrainers.
"Here, Mac." He tossed the shackles to MacKinzie. "Get 'em back on him." He bent down for his helmet.
Alan took a step backwards as MacKinzie approached with the restrainers. "Wait, please, sir. I promise not to make any trouble. Don't put those things on me again."
MacKinzie kept coming, and Alan backed away, putting his hands behind him. "Please, sir!"
Linley glanced at him, helmet in hand. "Wouldja promise not to try to get away?"
He opened his mouth and closed it again. Linley laughed. "Not that I'd've trusted you anyway. You're too fast on your feet. Hurry up, Mac."
"No!" Alan spun and bolted for the trees.
MacKinzie was upon him instantly, throwing him to the ground. Alan kicked backwards, and the patrolman gave a surprised grunt. "Ow!" He followed the exclamation with a string of profanity, hauled his captive upright and jerked him around, a large fist lifting.
"Mac," Linley said.
The patrolman froze, turning toward his superior officer. Linley shook his head. "Lay off."
"He kicked me, sir," Mac protested.
"Just put the restrainers on, Patrolman."
Mac's mouth tightened and he turned back to Alan. Linley glanced at the boy. "Don't try it again, Bud."
Alan remained where he was, not answering, bent almost double in the grasp of the patrolman. Linley turned away.
Sudden alarm shot through him, and he gave a strangled cry of warning.
An earsplitting roar echoed through the trees and Mac released him, shoving him forward. Alan fell, but landed in a roll, coming easily to his feet again. Something enormous came crashing through the tangled shrubbery to his right. Linley shouted a warning. Alan caught a confused impression of a huge, reptilian head, gaping jaws, and long, yellow fangs, as the thing charged straight toward Mac. The patrolman screamed, stumbling back, his blaster lifting. The weapon spat, just as the jaws closed with a sickening crunch. The patrolman's cry was cut off abruptly. The thing reared backward, half of Mac's body dangling limply from its jaws.
Linley's blaster cracked almost simultaneously. The bolt caught the creature in the side, searing away a patch of thick, yellowish scales. The thing screamed like a steam whistle, dropped the patrolman and, with unabated speed, lumbered toward the Commander. Linley leaped backwards, caught his foot on a trailing vine, and fell. His blaster spun sideways, described a graceful arc through the air and thudded to the ground right at Alan's feet.
Alan had no time to think. His reactions had always been fast, and now he moved instinctively. He bent, snatched up the blaster, and sprang sideways directly between Linley and the creature. For an instant his saw the great, bloodstained tusks, and pink gullet, and long, twisting tongue of the thing. Then his finger jerked on the trigger and the bolt caught the creature full in the face.
He tried to jump out of the way, but the head was too close. It crashed down, clipping him on the chest and hurling him backwards. He landed heavily on top of Linley. His foot twisted under him, but he barely felt it. The creature sprawled forward, the great, charred head coming to rest in the dirt, less than a meter away.
A large, strong hand descended on his wrist, and the blaster was gently, but firmly, removed from his grasp. Linley pushed him aside and got to his feet.
"Mac?" he called. "Are you okay?"
There was, as expected, no reply. Linley stepped past the motionless creature to squat beside his companion. "Mac?" He tried to pull the helmet away and stopped. Alan heard him mutter to himself.
"Is he all right?" he asked.
"He's dead," Linley replied. "His neck's busted -- an' the critter gored him right through the gut."
Alan swallowed hard. The Strike Commander was distracted for the moment. If he was to escape, now was the time.
His ankle was full of pins and needles, and as he tried to get to his feet it seemed as if a red-hot knife stabbed him in the leg. He bit off a gasp and sank back down, feeling slightly sick. Linley turned, saw him on his knees, and automatically brought the blaster up to cover him. "Freeze!"
Alan didn't reply, but closed his eyes, fighting back nausea. He heard Linley approaching. "You hurt?"
"My foot." Alan got the words out through clenched teeth.
"Hang on." The Strike Commander's hands eased him to the ground. "Relax an' take a couple o' deep breaths. That's good."
"I feel sick," Alan mumbled.
Linley shoved his head into his lap. "Breathe slow an' deep. It'll pass off in a minute."
Alan obeyed. Slowly the nausea receded and he lifted his head to see the Strike Commander kneeling beside him. There was an odd expression on the tall man's face.
"Better?" he asked.
Alan nodded, gripping his lower lip between his teeth. "It hurts."
"Lemme have a look." Linley lifted the ankle, examining it carefully, his fingers probing. Alan gave a sharp gasp, and his stomach lurched again.
"Sorry." The officer swore under his breath. "Could be a break, but it's probably just a good sprain." He placed the foot carefully on the forest floor and sat back on his heels, surveying his prisoner curiously. "That was a dumb stunt, kid. You coulda got away."
"I know," Alan said, bleakly.
There was a moment of silence. Linley started to rest a hand on his shoulder, then drew back as Alan flinched away. "I'm sorry, kid," he said. "I still hafta takeya in, y'know."
Alan was silent, rubbing his ankle.
"Thanks for the rescue, though." The Strike Commander paused, absently rubbing his own ankle.
There was another pause. Linley scratched a thumbnail across the blond stubble on his chin. He moved suddenly. "Here, lemme see if I can help your foot." He stood up and went over to pick up his pack. He rummaged through it, and brought out a regulation Patrol emergency kit. "Hang on, kid. I gotta sprain wrap in here somewhere. Yeah, here it is." He took out the bandage and returned to his prisoner. "Hold still."
"I'll be okay." Alan drew back. "Just give me a minute."
Linley ignored the request and knelt to bind up the injured ankle with surprising skill. To Alan's surprise, the pain eased somewhat.
"There." The Strike Commander secured the wrapping. "That better?"
Alan nodded. "Yes, sir."
"S'nothin'." Linley surveyed him a moment in silence.
Alan nodded again and watched as Linley got to his feet. "What are you going to do?" he inquired.
The Strike Commander got to his feet. "I'm gonna call the ship an' report this mess. They'll hafta send somebody to help me with you ..." He strode past the dead monster again, then stopped, staring down at something on the ground beside it, and swore unimaginatively.
"What's the matter?" Alan craned his neck to see past the creature.
Linley bent, picking up the object. "It's my helmet. Dammitall! The critter musta stepped on it. It's smashed flat!" He hurled the wreckage disgustedly away and gave the dead monster a vivid and extremely unflattering description of its ancestry. Alan listened in respectful silence until he had finished.
"What's wrong?"
"It's my communicator." Linley added another short, pungent word, and went over to MacKinzie. "The helmet I could live without. Damn thing gives me a headache half the time anyway. But they build our communicators into the helmets. I sure hope Mac's is okay."
Alan didn't hope so. He watched Linley pull the other man's helmet free and glance into it. The Strike Commander stood up again, pressing a button. "Linley to 'Wolverine', come in."
No response. He pressed the button again and twisted a knob. "Hell! There's blood all over the controls." He wiped the hand across his breeches. "Wolverine, this is Strike Commander Linley! Respond!"
Silence. Linley cussed under his breath, adjusted the knob again. "'Wolverine'! Elliott, are you there?"
The com remained silent. Linley reached inside again. "Dammit, Elliott! Answer me!"
Alan stifled a laugh, and Linley glanced at him, scowling. "It's busted, an' I ain't no tech. This is gonna be a long hike, kid."
Alan wasn't about to tell the man that it was possible that he could fix the thing. He had repaired such mechanisms for over six Terran months to earn money for school. And Terran communicators probably weren't all that different from the Patrol's. He shrugged. "It's okay, sir. As you said, I'm in no hurry."
Linley surveyed him a moment, then sighed. "No, I guess not. How's the foot?"
"Better."
"Think you can stand on it?" The Commander strode over to his prisoner and extended a hand. Alan pulled himself upright, trying gingerly to put his weight on the injured foot. The ankle gave instantly, and Linley caught him before he could fall.
"Damn!" Linley lowered him to the ground again, "My ankle's hurtin', too. I musta wrenched it when I fell over that damned vine." He glanced around. "Guess I'd better try'n make some sort o' crutch for you. Lemme see ..."
It took fifteen minutes to get the crutch made. Linley helped him to his feet again and handed him the crude device. It was far too long, the top reaching easily to his ear.
"Damn, but you're short!" Linley lowered him to the ground again.
"I can't help it," Alan said, a little resentfully.
Linley grinned. "You still got some growin' to do." He drew his blaster and adjusted it, beginning to burn off the excess length. "There, that oughtta do it." He lifted Alan upright again. "Damn! It's still too long!" He measured the device with his eye. "Okay, I think I got it." Once more he lowered Alan to the ground and employed the blaster. "There, that better do it. Try it now."
Alan was lifted to his feet once more. "It's okay now," he said.
Linley glanced around then bent beside Mac, removing the pouches and blaster from the man's belt. Alan looked down at the body. "Shouldn't we bury him?"
Linley shook his head. "Maybe, but we ain't got the time. Like Mac said, the Jil's waitin' for us, an' Jils don't like to be kept waitin'."
Alan stared at the patrolman's body, all the horror of his situation descending on him again.
Linley was watching him. "Let's go, kid."
"No!" Alan threw the crutch down. "I won't go!" He stood still, staring defiantly into Linley's handsome face.
The Strike Commander sighed. "Don't be an idiot, kid. I'm bigger'n you, an' a helluva lot stronger. I can force you t'go, but I'd rather not. So be a good kid an' start walkin'. Okay?"
Alan lost his balance and sat down hard. "You go to blazes!" he snapped. "I'm not moving!"
The patrolman's expression didn't change. "Okay, kid, if that's the way you want it." He leaned down, took Alan's arm and brought him forcibly to his feet. Alan jerked away, then bit back a cry as weight was thrown on the sprained ankle. Linley picked up the crutch and stuck it under his arm. "Move it, kid."
"No." Alan let the crutch fall.
Linley's mouth hardened and he drew his blaster. "I said move it."
Alan's throat was dry and his heart pounded uncomfortably against his ribs. The patrolman was a commanding presence and easily a third again his own mass. He was fairly sure Linley wouldn't kill him, but if he wanted to, the man could make mincemeat out of him in muscle power alone. Besides, Alan was sure the blaster now pointed at him was equipped with a needle beam setting. Such beams wouldn't kill, unless aimed at a vital organ, but they were agonizingly painful if correctly employed. The Commander bent picked up the crutch again, extending it toward Alan. "Take it."
He shook his head, stomach knotting. The Viceregal Patrol had very bad reputation for its heavy-handed tactics, and he was now defying a Strike Commander of that infamous profession. What would Linley do about it?
The Strike Commander stared at him a long moment. Alan could feel the sweat running down his face. He clutched a tree, moving as far away from the man as his injured leg permitted. Linley adjusted the blaster and came a step nearer, his face grim. "Don't push me, kid," he said quietly. "I can be just as mean as the next 'trol if I hafta."
Alan bit his lip. The man looked like a giant, and the blaster glinted dully in the rays of the sun. Linley extended the crutch. "This is your last warnin'. Let's go."
Very slowly, he took the crude device. "Okay," he said, sullenly.
Linley holstered his blaster, and Alan read relief on his features.
"That's a good kid." His voice was abruptly cheerful again. "Take it easy, now. I'll go slow." He reached down, picking up the restrainers from the ground. Alan recoiled.
"No!" he pleaded. "Please don't!"
Linley hesitated, shackles in hand. "Kid. I've gotta. That's the rules -- prisoners are to restrained at all times. We ain't even supposed to take 'em off when you eat."
"Please don't!" Alan shrank away.
Linley hesitated a moment longer, then grinned and clipped the restrainers to his belt. "Okay, you win. Guess it'd be devilish hard to use that damned crutch with these things on an' you can't exactly do much runnin', anyway. But you stay close, an' no tricks. Got it?"
Alan nodded, leaning on his crutch. "Okay, sir," he said, quietly.
The Strike Commander took his elbow, and together they started away through the trees.
III
Strike Commander Linley of the Viceregal Peace Patrol stepped over a fallen log, then turned to assist his prisoner. The boy was short but compactly built, moving lightly and almost gracefully on the rickety crutch.
He boosted Alan easily over the log, feeling the boy flinch again from his touch. Linley sighed inwardly. The kid was afraid of him. He wished he hadn't needed to use scare tactics earlier, but when Alan had refused to go along peacefully, he hadn't had a choice. He regretted it, though. Westover had saved his life, after all, and he seemed like such a nice, altogether likeable little cuss ... He swore softly under his breath.
"Howya doin', kid?" he asked.
"All right." Westover didn't look at him.
"You tell me if you need a rest. Okay?"
"Sure." The boy still wouldn't look at him.
Another silence. Linley's thoughts returned to the moment when the creature had charged. He and Mac together hadn't been able to kill the thing. It had taken this half-grown kid to accomplish the task. Why the devil had he done it? If he'd just run, the critter would most likely have killed both patrolmen, and he would have gotten away, for as far as Linley knew none of the other search parties were anywhere near the vicinity. He grinned to himself. He was glad the kid had decided to be a hero, but poor little Alan Westover was probably kicking himself for the action now.
He glanced at his prisoner again. "What'd you do, kiddo?" he asked. "C'mon, I won't tell the big boss anythin', but I'd really like t'know. Didja punch a Jil in the belly button or somethin'?"
Alan didn't smile.
"Kid?"
"I didn't do anything." His prisoner's eyes met his squarely. They were large, and the brightest green that Linley had ever seen, and had an unnerving way of looking directly at you that made him a little uneasy. He shifted a bit uncomfortably.
"Aw, c'mon, kid," he continued. "The Jils don't go to this kinda trouble for no reason. There's gotta be somethin'."
Alan's gaze didn't waver. "Suppose you tell me," he suggested. "What did they say about me, Strike Commander Linley?"
Linley raised an eyebrow at him. "They said you were a dangerous criminal -- desperate an' dangerous. We were to use extreme caution. I was expectin' some kinda monster, believe me. When Mac an' me finally caughtcha, you coulda knocked me over with a feather."
"A dangerous criminal?" Westover sounded genuinely astonished. "They called me that?"
"Their very words," Linley told him. "So c'mon, 'fess up. I gotta tellya right now, it won't do no good to lie to Salthvor. So what did you do t'make 'im so stinkin' mad?"
Alan shook his head helplessly. "I don't know! I've never met Salthvor -- or any other Jilectan. I don't know why he's mad at me."
The conversation was obviously going nowhere fast. Linley frowned thoughtfully. Either the kid was the slickest actor he'd ever met, or he really was telling the truth. Was it possible he really didn't know?
Alan gave a sharp exclamation as the crutch turned. Linley caught him before he fell. "Gotcha."
He felt the boy flinch again. "Easy, kid. I ain't gonna hurtcha -- not s'long as you do what you're told."
No reply. Again they went along in silence. Alan was watching him covertly.
"A dangerous criminal!" He repeated suddenly. "That doesn't make any sense at all. I haven't ..." He stopped, looking puzzled. "What kinds of things do Terrans have to do to make the Jilectans mad, sir? Maybe I did something I don't know about?"
"Maybe," Linley said, dubiously. "What's been goin' on in your life for the last few days, kiddo?"
His prisoner was frowning. "I can't think of anything," he said, at last. "I'm a cadet at the Terran Space Academy, though. I guess that might have something to do with it. Space cadets don't think much of the Jilectans."
"Or the Patrol," Linley said, and saw the boy flush. "Jils don't care what Terrans think, kid. Not s'long as we keep our thoughts to ourselves."
His prisoner gave a reluctant grin. "Well, we don't really keep our opinions secret, but most of our remarks are exchanged between each other. I don't think I'm any worse than the next guy."
He laughed. "'Trols are the same way."
"Really?" Alan looked at him in obvious surprise. "You guys don't like the Jils either?"
"Nope." Linley took his arm again as the ground started to slope upward. The boy didn't flinch this time.
"Then why do you work for them?" he asked.
Linley raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were talkin' about you. You sure you ain't mouthed off to any Jils lately?"
"Positive."
"Do you belong to the Terran Underground?"
Alan laughed.
"I'm serious," Linley said. "There's a lotta Underground agents hangin' around on Terra. If you were identified by an informer at a meetin', or somethin' ..."
Alan was shaking his head. "I'm a third year cadet at Terran Space Academy. I don't have time for meetings, or things like that. Since my parents died I've had to pay my own way through -- and it hasn't been easy, believe me. I've had to work and keep up with my classes, too."
Linley looked thoughtfully at him. So far the boy's history sounded pretty innocuous. "What kind of work do you do?" he asked.
"Just about everything. For awhile I was an assistant in ship maintenance, but it began to interfere with my classes." Alan sighed. "So now I'm a busboy at the Academy Coffee Shop. It's awful, but it's evening work and it pays my tuition -- well, some of it, anyway."
"You're in your third year? You said you were only eighteen."
"I am." Alan turned pink.
"Got in early, huh?"
He nodded. "I was supposed to graduate next year -- before all this." He glanced up at Linley's face, then looked down. "I'm in the honor society, and I've won two scholarships, which sure helped with the finances ..." He stopped.
"You must be a pretty smart kid," Linley remarked. "Honor society, huh?"
"Yes."
"Teachers all like you?"
He nodded again. "I thought they did ... until ..."
"'Til what?"
Alan frowned. "I went to one of them for help when the Patrol came after me. He told me to get out or he'd turn me in."
Linley was silent a moment. "The guy was scared," he said at last. "You get on the bad side o' the Patrol, an' they'll turn you over to the Jils. Don't hold it against your teacher. I'm sure it wasn't nothin' personal."
Alan looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "I guess not."
"How'd the Patrol find you, anyway? What was goin' on when they came after you wavin' their blasters?"
"Don't you know?" Alan looked at him in surprise.
"Nope." Linley shook his head. "I didn't get called in 'til after you'd already taken off. The 'Wolverine' was docked at the Patrol base on Phobos. They don't usually send Strike Commanders to make arrests, y'know."
"Then why ...?"
"Why am I here now?" Linley grimaced. "Kid, when a Jil says go, you go. 'Sides, I didn't like the idea o' spendin' all that time on the ship alone with a bad tempered Jil, anyway. You ain't answered my question, though. What was goin' on?"
Alan started to answer, then yelped as his stocking foot came down on a thorny creeper. Linley caught him under the arms, lifting him lightly over the barbs. "Okay?"
"Ouch! Darn it!" Alan lowered himself to the ground and pulled the thorn from his heel.
"You get it out?" Linley sat down beside him.
"Yeah." Alan rubbed his heel. "I'm tired."
"We can rest a minute." Linley unhooked the canteen from his belt. "Want a drink?"
"Thanks." Alan tilted the container up. Linley allowed him to drink his fill, then took the canteen back, swigging from it himself. His prisoner watched in silence. Linley grinned at him and replaced the canteen on his belt.
"Now, as you were about to say?"
"Huh? Oh, the patrolmen. I was just coming out of my classes -- the last one of the day -- and started down the steps of the building, when all of a sudden a whole squad of Viceregal patrolmen came thundering right up the steps toward me -- blasters drawn, no less."
"That so?"
Alan nodded. "Well, I ran, of course. There were patrolmen everywhere, looking for me, but I managed to get to one of my professors, thinking he would help me. Dr. Schupp -- I ... I always liked him a lot. I begged him for help, but he wouldn't ..." Alan fell silent, biting his lip. "I ... I suppose you're right," he continued, at last. "He must have been awfully scared of the Jils to turn away one of his own students ..."
Linley rested a hand on his shoulder. "I've seen people turn their own family away when the Patrol's after 'im. If anybody's caught helpin' a criminal escape, the Jils kill 'em right along with the fugitive. Mr. Schupp was good to letcha go. Actually, he shoulda turned you in."
His prisoner looked fearfully at him. "You won't tell on him, will you?"
"Nah." Linley shrugged. "I won't say nothin' unless I'm asked."
"Thanks." Alan looked relieved. "I wouldn't want him to get in trouble."
"So then what happened?" He took the boy's arm, helping him to rise.
"Well, I got out and made it to the flight deck while the Patrol was still searching the building for me. I took one of the Academy's skipperships -- we use 'em for training the brand new cads in the basics -- and headed out of the System. Unfortunately, I forgot to check the power meter before takeoff." Alan shook his head disgustedly.
"You led us one helluva chase, though," Linley told him, with genuine respect. "I thought we never were gonna catch you."
Alan's features relaxed into a smile. "How did you know I'd headed for Centauri?"
"Easy." Linley grinned. "Salthvor asked the flight instructor an' found out the ship you took was mighty low on power. You couldn'ta gone anyplace else."
"That's what I figured." Alan sighed. "Oh, well ..."
The sun was sinking behind the trees and the air became chilly. Linley glanced at the boy beside him, an unfamiliar and very unpleasant sensation nagging at him. It took a moment of study before he identified it. The sensation was pity. It had been so long since Strike Commander Mark Linley had felt sorry for anybody that he had failed to recognize the emotion at first.
The realization shook him. Patrolmen didn't feel sorry for their prisoners. They couldn't afford such luxuries. He scowled, trying to dismiss the feeling. Alan looked up at him. "So, that's my story, sir. What do you make of it?"
Linley shrugged. "How'd you know they were after you?'
"Huh?" The boy's eyes widened at the harshness in his tone. "What do you mean?"
"You know damn well what I mean. When the Patrol came after you on the stairs, how'd you know they were after you in particular?"
A red tinge crept into Alan's cheeks. "I knew! They were coming right at me!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah!"
"An' you were all alone? Weren't there other people around?"
Alan's eyes widened even more, then fell.
"Well, kid?" Linley felt another twinge of pity, and pushed it back forcibly. "What'sa matter? Afraid to answer that one?'
"There were other people around." Alan's reply was barely audible.
"Nearby? Near enough so the 'trols mighta been after them, 'stead o' you?"
The boy's flush deepened.
"Maybe you were even walkin' with somebody, huh?"
His prisoner was staring at the ground.
"Did the guy you were walkin' with run from the Patrol?"
Alan's face came up, his green eyes bright with anger in the twilight. "Why the heck do you care, sir? I'm guilty -- that's what you've decided, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Linley said, wishing he could make his tone more convincing. "Yeah, that's what I've decided,"
The boy's expression became hostile. "I'm not guilty! I didn't do anything!"
Linley shrugged carelessly. "That's what you keep sayin', kid -- and yet you ran. You musta realized right away that they were after you, or you wouldn'ta took off like that. The guy with you didn't run, did he?"
"It was a girl," Alan said.
"Huh?"
"I was walking with a girl."
Linley stared at him, disarmed by the irrelevancy of the remark. "Well, did she run?"
Alan didn't answer for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, she didn't run. She just got out of the way." He pivoted on the crutch. "I'm not guilty!"
Linley shrugged. "I've hunted down a lotta fugitives in my time, kid. I never caught one yet who didn't protest an' shout his innocence all the way back."
No answer.
The air had become cooler as the sky overhead darkened. One of Midgard's two moons appeared, glowing yellow above the trees. The ground began to slant up again, and Linley saw Alan flinch, although his prisoner made no sound. Looking down, he realized the ground beneath their feet was thick with briars, while more thorny underbrush rose up on all sides. He hadn't even noticed! Poor kid! His feet must be full of holes. Linley looked at the boy's set face, feeling a little ashamed and suddenly very sorry.
"Here, kid." He reached out a hand. "Lemme help ..."
Alan jerked away from his captor's touch, almost losing his balance. Linley felt sympathy dissolve into irritation. "C'mon, kid," he said. "Quit sulkin'. You can't blame me for bein' a little cynical in my profession."
"Your profession!" Alan said, scornfully. "If I was in your profession I'd be ashamed to tell anybody -- hunting down your own people for Jilec--." He bit off the word and turned defiantly to face the Commander.
Linley's mouth tightened. "Watch it, kid," he said, ominously.
"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Alan blazed.
Linley took a menacing step forward. "Just remember, kid, I could make things a helluva lot harder on you if I felt like it. The Jils said to bring you in alive -- not one word about keepin' you in good shape. I'm breakin' the rules right now, lettin' you wiggle outta havin' the cuffs on, but if you give me any more lip ..."
"Put 'em on!" Alan retorted, angrily. "Go ahead, for Pete's sake! I wouldn't want you to get in *trouble*!"
They glowered at each other, and Linley took an instant to wonder why he was arguing with an idiotic kid, and why it should matter at all to him what Alan thought. It didn't matter, he told himself, firmly. Not in the slightest.
"Cool it, kid." He spoke carelessly. "You're a cute youngster, and I'd like t'make things as easy on you as I can. But I really don't give a damn about you, so don't push me ..."
Alan was red in the face. "Go ahead, put 'em on! I might make a break for it any moment! But I warn you, if you do you'll have to carry me, and I'm a lot heavier than I look!"
"Yeah, you're a regular superman, ain'tcha -- strong of limb an pure of heart. But don't get the idea I'm gonna carry you, sonny, 'cause restrainers or not you're gonna walk every step o' the way!"
"I don't care!" Alan said, defiantly. "You'd love to hear me say I'm guilty, wouldn't you? It'd make you feel so much better ..."
"Well, if you want it straight, kid, I think you're guilty as hell, so you can just quit ..."
"That's a lie!" Alan shouted. "It's what you *want* to believe, but you're not sure, are you? Well, Strike Commander Linley, you just keep right on burying your head in the sand if it makes you feel any better. I haven't done anything, and no ... no Jilectan bootlicker is going to drag a false confession out of me, so you can just quit trying! It won't work!"
"You're on mighty thin ice, kid ..."
Alan's voice rose recklessly. "I don't care! I've got nothing to lose! I'm in for it anyway, so what does it matter if you start the rough stuff now or in a couple of days? Go on use your muscle! You 'trols are good at that, I hear! It's a terrific argument when you haven't got any other answer!"
Linley took another step forward, gritting his teeth. He'd been sassed by prisoners before, but never like this. So far, every remark Alan had made had struck unerringly home, and yet the kid had managed to chew him out without using a single cussword. That fact, for some reason, made the boy's cutting remarks all the more insulting.
"You tryin' to get hurt, kid?" he inquired tightly. "Button your lip before I ..."
Alan laughed scornfully. "Do it, sir! Beat me up! Kill me, if you like! Go on! Save your good buddy, Lord Salthvor, a little trouble!"
"Dammit!" Linley stared at the boy in helpless fury. He forced back the anger through sheer willpower. "Look, kid, I can see how you feel, but I can't put up with this. I don't wanna be tough on you, but you're pushin' me into it. Say you're sorry, an' I'll forget the whole thing ..."
"I'm *not* sorry! Go on, put the restrainers on! You're bigger than me, and a lot stronger! You can do anything you like, and there's no way I can stop you! Put 'em on, slap me around a little, and haul me back to your boss in proper style! You'll get a commendation, no doubt, catching a dangerous criminal like me!"
Linley reached down, grasped the boy by his collar, dragged him forward, and shook him until his teeth rattled. "Listen, you young idiot, you just keep a civil tongue in you head, or, by the stars, I'll ..."
"Do it!" Alan shouted at him. "Go ahead!"
"You watch your mouth, you little runt! I know a hundred ways to set you screamin' in less'n ten seconds, and if you don't ..."
"I'm sure you do!" Alan interrupted. "I've heard all about you big, brave 'trols! You're good at making people scream -- especially people who can't fight back!"
Linley shook him again. "So you think you know all about the Viceregal Patrol, huh? One more word outta you, kid, an' you're gonna get a real education about what 'trols can do!" He lifted Alan lightly from the ground, hearing the boy's choked gasp. "Say you're sorry, dammit!"
Alan was still, his expression mirroring contempt. The scene held static for a full ten seconds, and Linley's heart sank. He was going to have to carry through. If he let the kid get away with this he'd have no end of trouble before this blasted trip was over. Funny that it should bother him so much ...
Alan seemed to read his thoughts, for Linley saw him stiffen, trying not to flinch back. Slowly, Linley lifted a clenched fist, his grasp tightening. His prisoner's eyes widened slightly, but didn't waver.
He couldn't breathe. There was a choking sensation in his throat, and a pain in his ankle. An odd sensation of fear ran over him. His heart began to pound as he stared into Alan's eyes, his fist five centimeters from the boy's nose.
He couldn't do it. Try as he might, he couldn't force himself to hit the boy. As the seconds passed, Alan slowly relaxed. Linley realized abruptly that the pain in his ankle was gone, as was the tightness in his throat. He could breathe easily again. The boy's eyes were searching his, but were no longer scornful. In sudden exasperation Linley released him, hurling him away.
Alan cried out as he hit, the sprained ankle giving beneath his weight. He staggered backwards and fell with a crash into the thorny underbrush.
For a moment, Linley didn't move. He stared at the boy's prone form, his anger draining away. Alan writhed a little in the grasp of the thorns, then became still. "Ouch," he said in a muffled voice.
Suddenly ashamed of himself, Linley bent over him. "You okay?"
"Sure," came the muffled reply.
"Hang on. I'll getcha out." With care, he untangled the dark curls from the matted brambles, unsnagged the boy's shirt, and lifted him free. Alan sank to the ground, clutching his ankle, and Linley winced at the scratches on his captive's face.
"Man! You're a mess!"
"I'm all right." Alan looked up at him, dabbing at the blood running down his chin. "Do you feel better now, sir?"
"Shuddup, squirt." The Strike Commander scowled darkly. "Lemme see that foot."
"It'll be okay."
"Do as you're told." Linley stretched the leg out and began to unwind the bandage.
Alan didn't reply, but remained passive as he undid the wrappings. The ankle was swollen and discolored, and Linley examined it, cussing under his breath. How the hell was Alan going to keep going for another two days on that? He wondered if Salthvor might get tired of waiting before they could make it back to the ship and leave. In a way it might make things easier if His Lordship did just that ...
He began to rewrap the ankle, busy with his thoughts. What the devil would he do if Salthvor did leave? The country was wilderness, and, although there might be settlements within walking distance, they might wander for weeks before encountering one ...
"I guess you're not going to hit me after all, huh?" Alan's subdued voice cut into his thoughts, and Linley glanced up. The boy was watching him, his green eyes still glowing faintly in the dimness. Linley returned his gaze, trying to re-summon his anger and failing.
"Nah!" he said, suddenly too tired and disgusted to continue the struggle. "You're safe."
Alan's features relaxed. "You had me really scared for a minute."
"Aw, hell!" Linley fastened the bandage and sat back on his heels, regarding his prisoner unhappily. "I'm a damn sucker when it comes to you, kiddo. But look, you'd better watch that mouth of yours, 'cause it's gonna getcha in trouble when we get back to the ship. Most 'trols ain't as easy goin' as I am."
Alan smiled disarmingly. "Most 'trols aren't as nice as you are."
He laughed, the sobered. "Hey, I'm sorry. I know you've been havin' a helluva time. I didn't mean to make it worse."
Alan looked down, blinking, and Linley saw him rub a hand across his eyes. He swallowed hard. "You believe me, don't you?" His voice was choked.
Mark Linley stared at him helplessly. He did believe the boy. Without proof, and totally without reason, he believed him.
Alan looked up at him and swallowed again. "I'm innocent, Mark. I swear it."
"Okay." Mark spoke gently. "I do believe you, but it don't really matter. It's the Jils you're gonna hafta convince."
Alan nodded simply. "I know. But I'm glad you believe me, anyway." He smiled again, his face very young in the half-light. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't have any right to flare up at you like that. You've treated me well so far -- a ... a lot better that I expected to be treated by a ... by a ..."
"By a damn 'trol," Mark said. He grinned. "Skip it. Lots o' the stories you hear about the Patrol are true, but in this business we gotta watch after our hides. Some o' the things that happen get done 'cause a prisoner tries to get away, an' when a prisoner gets away, somebody hasta answer. It ain't much fun standin' in front o' some Jil, havin' to admit to a mistake, believe me."
"I can imagine," Alan said.
"No you can't," Mark said, feelingly. "Not unless you've done it. You think you've heard bad things about us 'trols. Lotsa Jils don't care a whole lot for us Terrans, y'know. Try getting' socked by one o' them, sometime."
Alan's eyes widened. "Have you been hit by a Jil?"
"Yeah." Linley grinned wryly.
"Really?"
"Really."
"What for?"
Mark's grin broadened. "Which time?"
"You mean it's happened more than once?"
"Sure." Mark laughed. "Salthvor's pasted me a couple o' times. He's one o' the Jils that gets on his high horse 'cause we have the nerve to look sorta like them. 'Specially us blond ones," He ran a hand through his hair. "He starts broodin' about that, an' any old excuse'll do."
"You mean Lord Salthvor goes around beating up the Strike Commanders of his battlecruisers?"
"I ain't always been a Strike Commander, y'know. The first time it happened I was a lowly corporal."
"But what did he hit you for?"
Mark slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "For somethin' I can't talk about -- 'specially to a prisoner. C'mon. We gotta get goin'." He stood up, helping Alan to rise. "Where's that damned crutch?"
"Over there."
Mark retrieved it. "Here. I'll give you a hand. We gotta get outta these brambles an' make camp before all the light's gone, 'specially since we'll hafta circle that damned swamp tomorrow. There's no way you're gonna get through that muck in the shape your foot's in. Let's make tracks."
But it was not destined to be. Night fell long before they made it out of the bramble patch, and with the darkness came drizzling rain. Mark glanced sideways at his prisoner, a little annoyed with himself for having dismissed the boy's verbal attack on him so readily. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age. He shrugged mentally. Oh, what the hell. The kid had been fighting with the only weapon he had, and Linley couldn't blame him for that. What a helluva spot to be in! Poor kid! What the devil did the Jils want with him, anyway?
He swore savagely as wet brambles snagged him by the hair, showering them both with large, icy drops. Alan waited patiently as he disentangled himself, managing in the process to run a thorn under his thumbnail. He swore again, sucking the offended member. "Ain't there any end to these damned things?"
"I'm beginning to wonder," Alan said. "My feet have more holes in them than a pincushion."
Mark grimaced. "I guess you're gettin' the worst of this, ain'tcha?" He flashed the light around. "C'mon. They can't go on forever."
"I'm not so sure of that," Alan said, his teeth chattering.
Something scurried away at their noisy approach, grunting hoarsely, and a moment later a dark shape swooped past their faces, making them both recoil. Alan lost his balance again and lurched to the side. Linley grabbed him before he could fall, feeling him wince.
"You all right?"
"Yeah." The boy lifted his bad ankle and rubbed it. "Stepped on another thorn."
"Careful. Stay with the light." Mark took a firmer grip on his arm. Alan was shaking, fatigue beginning to take its toll. They went on a dozen more steps, and he yipped again.
He sank to the ground, examining his feet, then glanced up. "Why don't we just camp here tonight?" he suggested, tiredly. "If I try to go on anymore I'm going to cripple myself for life."
Linley sighed. "Get on."
"What?"
"Get on my back. I said I wasn't gonna carry you, but if I don't we're gonna be pussyfootin' through this blasted bramble patch all night. C'mon, upsey daisy."
"Do you think you can?" Alan asked somewhat dubiously. "I'm pretty heavy."
"Sure you are." Mark caught him by the wrist and swung him up one-handed. "Hang on and keep your head down."
Alan clung to his shoulders like a monkey as he strode on. "Mark?"
"Yeah?" Linley snagged his hair again and swore wearily. Alan unhooked him.
"What was that thing that killed MacKinzie? I ran into a couple of 'em while I was running away from you."
"You did what?"
He felt his prisoner nod. "Three, actually. What are they?"
"Those things are the dinosaurs of Midgard," Linley said. "I guess they ain't really dinosaurs, o' course, but they look sorta like 'em, don'tcha think?"
"They sure do," Alan said. "I've heard about Midgard's dinosaurs, but somehow I didn't imagine them being so big."
"Yeah, me neither. How'd you get away from 'em, anyway? You didn't even have a blaster!"
"Oh, I saw them, but they didn't see me," Alan said, lightly, "I was careful to steer clear of them, you bet."
"No kiddin'!" Linley said.
The thicket of brambles was becoming less dense now, and Mark flashed his light around, searching for a good campsite. The rain still fell, cold and uncomfortable, drenching their clothing, and Alan clung tightly to him shivering. Something hooted mournfully in the distance, and the sound was answered by wild, idiotic laughter from the tree overhead. Linley drew his blaster, glancing nervously upward. The thing laughed again, close enough to raise the hair on his head. Alan stirred and spoke unexpectedly.
"It's okay. I know what it is. It won't hurt us."
"You sure?" Linley glanced up again as the laughter sounded once more, escalating to a nerve-grating pitch.
"Yes, I'm sure." Alan sounded tired but completely calm. "I had one follow me about six kilometers while I was running from you. They're just curious about us."
He paused, glancing back at his passenger. "How do you know? Just because the one that followed you didn't attack doesn't mean this one ain't gonna."
He felt the boy shrug. "Don't worry."
The laughter began again, echoed a moment later by more laughter, farther ahead. Hoping fervently that Alan was right, Linley kept moving.
Eventually they reached a small, open space beneath a spreading tree. Mark shook the water from his eyes, shining the light around. "Kid?"
Alan jerked awake. "Yes?"
"We're outta the stickers, an' I think we better stop here before we run into anythin' hungry." He let his passenger slide to the ground. "Siddown an' put your foot up."
Alan rubbed his eyes and sank gingerly onto a fallen log. "Everything's wet."
"Yeah, I'd noticed." Linley wiped a sleeve across his face. The rain was lessening, but the leaves around them still dripped moisture, and the air was biting cold. He began to gather firewood. "Feel like some hot fo
