This is another in the Terran Underground series. It takes place approximately a year before Psychic Killer, in the series. For anyone wishing a background on the setting for this story, go here: http://www.lcficmbs.com/ubb/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=4;t=000002
and read the introduction. That should give you all the information you need.
Rescue Mission is an original work of fiction by the two authors. and is copyrighted to Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidence and unintentional. Copyright 2003
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Rescue Mission: 1/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Midgard loomed a blue-green crescent in the ship's viewscreen. The third planet of Alpha Centauri was an earthlike world with pronounced seasons due to the presence of it's two large stars, Alpha and Beta. Proxima Centauri burned only as a bright star in the night sky at this time of year.
Mark Linley grimaced, shivering at the memory of his last visit to the Midgard colony.
"Brrr! I'm already cold."
"Huh?" Alan Westover glanced up from his study of the control board readout. "You mean Midgard?"
"Cold, filthy weather!"
"Oh." His partner grinned. "Don't worry, Mark. It's summer where we're going."
"Summer, sure. I've never seen Midgard yet but it was rainin' an' cold."
"You just wait," Alan said, placidly. "It'll be warm."
"You're a native Terran. Warm to you ain't warm to a Shallockian kid, buddy. You didn't seem to mind the weather much when we were here the first time--how many years ago was it?"
"Eleven--no, twelve. I was a green eighteen then."
"You still look eighteen, kid."
"Yeah," Alan retorted. "But back then I looked about twelve. I can't help my metabolism. Anyhow, I had other things on my mind--like being dragged in to see a Jil."
"That'd take your mind off the weather, all right," Linley agreed. "Enterin' atmosphere. You all strapped in tight?"
**********
Linley opened the car window wide and leaned back, his hair blowing in the warm breeze. "I gotta admit you were right. This is nice. Reminds me o' winter on Shallock. My favorite season."
Alan smiled absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. Linley sighed. Alan hadn't said much about certain events a few hours ago, but he knew his partner too well to be deceived. "Take it easy, kid," he said, uncomfortably. "It's nothin' to make a galactic case out of, y'know."
Alan's brow furrowed. "Unfortunately, Mark, it is." His tenor voice was quietly intense. "It is exactly that. And if I don't make a galactic case out of it now, circumstances will later--with far more damaging results for the Terran Underground. You see--" He tapped his finger on the window. "You see, a lot of high ranking officers from the Patrol have joined us at one time or other. You're not the only one--just the most famous. They should have given you that promotion, but they passed you over out of clique snobbery. It's causing ill feeling, just like it is with the psychics."
Linley subsided. His partner was right as usual. Although a non-functioning psychic, he had a certain brotherhood with the psychics of the Terran Underground, being the power pack of their star psychic. He had been aware of it for some time, as the High Command probably had not--or at least, he amended, they were probably not as aware as he of the extent of the resentment.
Alan's promotion to brigadier general had not exactly thrilled his partner, and for good reason. It had become more than obvious in recent years that no psychic had ever reached a higher rank than full colonel. The Terran High Command wasn't being very bright about it in Linley's opinion, but they didn't know psychics as well as he, having had little contact with them. They almost certainly underrated the insight of their Special Forces about the matter, but the only psychic who had been through a prestigious Terran military academy was also their most successful one--the legendary Alan Westover. To still the resentment, they had promoted him. Alan saw through the hypocrisy as quickly as Linley and was totally unappreciative of his new position as token psychic. He was even less impressed by the in-group snobbery of the high Terran officers that had denied a promotion to Linley, whom, he considered, deserved it--simply due to the fact that he was an outsider, a defector twelve years before, from his position as a Strike Commander of a Jilectan Patrol battlecruiser, to the Terran side. Linley shrugged mentally. He'd been nominated; they'd turned him down. Those were the breaks. The long-range consequences were the important matter, not whether or not he, personally, received a promotion. He glanced uneasily at his partner. Alan wasn't going to let the matter rest here, that was certain, and Linley was glad he wasn't the man standing in his partner's way. He felt a little sorry for the High Command.
They drew up before a modest house on the outskirts of town and Linley set the brake, letting the engine idle. Alan stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, then spoke. "Everything's all right. Let's go."
They got out and started for the house. Linley gave his partner a companionable slap on the shoulder. "All right kid, I admit you're right, an' I'm behind you a hundred percent, but let's table the subject for now. Poor ol' Worley'll think you're mad at him, the way you're lookin' now."
Alan chuckled involuntarily. "Don will never guess there's anything wrong, Mark."
They strode up the pebbled walk side by side. Brilliant roses bloomed on either side of it--Mrs. Worley's pride and joy, Linley knew--and the flower beds before the house were alive with waving poppies, giving forth a delightful scent. Linley inhaled deeply. "Man! Shallock was never like this! The kids there don't know what they're missin'."
Alan rapped twice at the door, waited a moment, then gave three deliberate knocks. The door opened at once revealing Worley's ten-year-old son, Michael. He stared, mouth open, then stepped back, quickly, motioning them inside.
Linley followed Alan into the shallow entranceway and grinned at the boy. "Hi there, Mike. You've grown some since I saw you last."
Michael snapped to attention. "General Westover! Colonel Linley!"
Alan returned the salute, then smiled. "At ease, cadet. Is your dad here?"
"Yessir!" The boy didn't relax. "In his lab, sir!"
Alan put a hand on the youngster's shoulder. "At ease, cadet. That's an order." He grinned at Michael. "We're here at your father's invitation, Mike. Let him know we're here, okay?"
"Yessir! This way, sir!" The boy did a perfect about face and led them to a tidy sitting room toward the back of the house. "I'll get Dad, sir." he said. "Please sit down. It'll only be a moment." He saluted sharply and went out the door. Linley heard him break into a run as soon as he was out of sight.
Alan grinned and shook his head, meeting Linley's eyes. Mark chuckled. "The trials an' tribulations o' rank, buddy."
Alan's smile became rueful. "I think this is going to get old real soon."
"Better get used to it," Linley advised him, dryly. He noted the small motion of Alan's head. "Somebody comin'?"
"Brenda," Alan said.
A few seconds later Brenda Worley appeared in the doorway. "General Westover! Colonel Linley! I wondered who Mike had let in! It's wonderful to see you again! You will stay to dinner, won't you?"
Mark and Alan had both risen when she entered. Linley lifted her hand and kissed it. "You're as pretty as ever, Brenda."
She laughed, drawing her hand away. "You haven't changed a bit, Mark. How does Julia keep up with you?"
"Aw--" Mark smiled. "She knows she don't have nothin' to worry about. I'm reformed. But it can't hurt to look."
Both Brenda and Alan laughed this time.
"Well, everybody sounds happy." Donovan Worley, still in his lab coat with various stains here and there and a pair of forceps sticking out of one pocket, appeared in the doorway.
Worley was a tall, muscular man in his mid-forties with a blond thatch of thick, untidy hair. Linley had never yet seen him dressed in anything but blue jeans, tennis shoes and the same lab coat. He worked in them, ate in them and probably slept in them.
"Hi, Don." Alan stepped forward and clasped his extended hand. Worley shook the hand firmly, then stepped back, snapping to attention and saluted.
"General Westover, sir!"
Alan looked at Linley. "I told you, it gets old fast. Cut it out, will you, Don," he continued turning back to Worley. "I've been hearing nothing else since I got the promotion this morning."
Worley laughed. "I sympathize, Alan, but congratulations anyway." He met Linley's gaze with a wink. "Proud of your little partner, Mark?"
"I'm always proud of him," Linley replied. "So, why the invitation, Don? Just want us to drop by to say hello?"
"Not exactly." Worley looked, Linley thought, uncommonly pleased with himself. "I've got a little something to show you. Come on into my lab."
Chapter II
"Coffee?" Worley picked up the coffeepot that perpetually sat on the lab hot plate.
"Sure." Linley accepted the cup of murky liquid Worley held out. "Hey Don, when was the last time you cleaned that thing?"
"Cleaned it?" Worley looked shocked. "Do you want me to destroy the unique flavor of my coffee?"
Linley eyed the brew dubiously. "You sure it's safe?"
"Where's your sense of adventure, Mark?" His partner poured sugar and cream into his cup and took a healthy swallow. "Besides," he added, "that coffee would kill anything that tried to grow in it."
"Point well taken." Linley never failed to comment of Worley's coffee. He took a swallow. "So what's the big secret, Don? Figured out a way to make mental midgets outta the Jils yet?"
"Not quite." Worley's eyes were shining. "But I have got something to show you--something that effects you particularly, Mark."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes." Worley reached over and pulled open his refrigerator. A confused mass of bottles, tubes and petri dishes met Linley's gaze. Worley selected a beaker from a rack and held it up, closing the door with one elbow. "See this?"
"Yeah." Mark took another swallow of coffee.
"Care to guess what it is?"
Linley regarded the colorless fluid in the container with mild curiosity. "Hundred and eighty proof vodka?"
Worley laughed. "Not quite, but it packs an even better punch. This is triaminohexavelaphine. Pure form."
Mark looked at him blankly, but he heard Alan suck in a sharp breath and break into coughs.
Worley whacked him on his back as Alan continued to cough, his face turning red. He managed to get his breath at last, wheezed a couple of times, coughed once more, and gasped out, "You did it!"
"Really, Alan," Worley regarded him with amused concern. "The coffee is to drink, not breathe. Are you all right?"
"Yeah." Alan drew a whistling breath. "I hate to think what that stuff could do to my lungs. But you did it!"
"Did what?" Linley inquired, still mystified. "What the hell is it?"
Worley held the container up to the light. "About a tenth of a cc of this stuff in your bloodstream would turn you into a psychic, Mark."
Linley slopped hot coffee onto his hands, but hardly noticed. "Huh?"
"You heard. I've isolated the enzyme that makes a psychic a psychic instead of a power pack. It's what makes the difference between Alan and you, Mark. This stuff is the control factor. We all manufacture it in our bodies. You just happen to produce a very small amount--below the critical level to turn you from a power pack to a psychic. If we inject 0.1 cc of this juice into you--bingo! The sector's first king size Terran psychic is born!"
"You're kiddin'!" Linley sucked his burned hand absently and set the mug down. "I'd be a psychic?"
"Yep--and probably a real good one, too. Remember those tests I ran a few years ago? You're carrying a double psychic gene just like Alan. If you'd been born a psychic you'd have been a whopping good one. As good as Alan; maybe better."
"You said the same thing back then," Mark said, absently. "Can I try it?"
Worley laughed. "What's your hurry, Mark? Tired of being a power pack?"
"Well--" Mark glanced at his partner. "Not exactly. I like bein' Alan's partner o' course--but I can't help wonderin' what it would be like to be the genuine article--for awhile, anyway. I take it the effects'd be temporary?"
"Sure. They wouldn't last but--oh, probably 24 hours or so. Then your body would excrete the excess and you'd go back to the way you were."
Alan looked troubled. "I'm not sure I'd like losing you as my partner, even temporarily, Mark."
Worley harrumphed. "Take it easy, Alan. I'm not going to let him try it. It's got to be tested a lot more to be sure it's safe. Kaley'd string me up by the thumbs--even if there aren't any side effects."
Alan grinned shamefacedly. "I suppose. I guess it wouldn't be too bad, though-- it'd be sort of interesting to see what kind of psychic Mark would have been. I never thought before that he might feel kind of cheated the way things turned out."
It was Linley's turn to grin. "Naw, kid, I don't feel cheated--but I can't help wonderin', y'know?"
"Well," Worley said, practically. "Maybe you'll have the chance to find out someday." He paused thoughtfully. "You know, Alan, you might not lose Mark as a partner. There must be some reason psychics choose each other for partners. It could be the same reason you and Mark are linked. I'll be interested in finding out, when we do get around to trying it on a human."
"Betcha they'll have a lot o' volunteers," Mark said, wistfully. "So, why'd you send for us, Don?"
Worley turned and opened a cupboard. "I'm sending a sample back with you. It's in a self-contained refrigeration unit, so it'll be fine 'til you get it there. You've got better facilities there for testing, and computer analysis and simulations than I have. Here you go, Mark." He handed the unit to Linley. "You've got the best stake in this, so you carry it."
"Thanks." Linley slipped it into an inner pocket. "You know, this could turn out pretty good, kid. You can't deny there's been a few times me bein' a psychic coulda' been convenient."
"That's true," Alan agreed. "That time on Kuloghi--after you got there--was one of them that I can think of."
"An' the time we bailed out Lady Travinthzill an' Halthzor's kid," Mark added.
"Yeah, it would have been convenient. I didn't know if you were alive or dead."
"Speaking of Halthzor," Worley said, "Let's find out if there's any news on him yet." He reached over to flip on the videoscreen.
"He's still missing then?" Alan said.
"Last I heard." Worley directed the device to find a news station.
" ... zor's ship, the Firebird which departed from Riskell 48 hours ago. The Firebird was due to arrive at Corala 20 hours after it's departure but has not done so, and there has been no clue found as to it's fate. Search ships have been dispatched along the ship's hyperspace coordinates, but nothing has been found. The Viceroy's cousin, Lord Scwinthzor, has expressed concern ..."
Mark snorted. "I'll bet. If somethin's really happened to Halthzor he'll be the first one to cheer."
"That's for sure," Alan agreed. "Listen."
" ... Possibility of an accident or foul play. Stay tuned to this channel for further bulletins. In other news, the flooding in Scaifen, the capital city of Shallock, continues without relief, and the home of Lord Rathvor has been ..."
Worley switched off the sound. "Wonder if something has happened to him ..."
"Hope it's nothin' trivial," Linley remarked.
Alan laughed, then sobered abruptly. "I sure hope he's still alive, though. Do you realize that, now that Scwoonthzor is gone who knows where, Scwinthzor will become Regent, because none of Halthzor's sons are old enough yet."
Mark grimaced. "You're right, o'course. This is no laughing matter. If Scwinthzor gets in there I'm ready to bet none o'those kids of Halthzor's'll reach their majority."
"Me, too," Alan agreed. "He'll kill them before they're old enough to take over."
Worley had listened in silence, but now he spoke dubiously. "Is he really as bad as they say?"
"Probably worse," Mark said. "The guy's a sadist. I wouldn't be a servant o' his for a million credits. He has trouble gettin' servants 'cause he's such a damn weirdo."
"And wives," Alan put in. "He's only got ten because the Jil lords won't trust him with their daughters. The ones he's got he bought from impoverished nobles and from some middle classers--and then he beat one of them to death. Remember?"
"I recall something about it," Worley said, slowly. "He must have been found innocent, though, or he'd have been executed. The Jils don't tolerate wife killers."
"He got off because he's got a lot of political influence," Linley said cynically. "Not to mention protectin' the ol' family honor, y'know? His mother's the Warlord's aunt, an' he's Halthzor's second cousin, through the male line. That makes him powerful as well as sadistic. Dangerous combination."
"I'll say," Worley said. "It wouldn't surprise me if he had Viceregal ambitions. You know, I wonder if his older brother's disappearance had anything to do with Scwinthzor. After all, Scwoonthzor was the only serious barrier between him and Halthzor's position."
"A lot of people wondered about that," Alan said. "And about two months after Scwoonthzor vanished there was that assassination attempt on Halthzor that was blamed on us, if you remember."
"How could I forget?" Worley said. "If something has happened to Halthzor, and Scwinthzor becomes Viceroy ..." He stopped.
"Not a pleasant thought," Linley said, uncomfortably. "Y'know, I never thought I'd be saying this, but I sure hope ol' Halthzor's all right."
Another uneasy silence. Alan moved suddenly, setting down his coffee mug with a sharp click.
"Mark, we'd better go. Would you make our excuses to Brenda, Don?"
"Sure." Worley was watching Alan quizzically. "Do you have something in mind, General Westover, sir?"
Alan smiled absently. "I just think we should go--right away. Come on, Mark.
**********
Linley watched his partner advance a pawn into a dangerously exposed position. They were in hyperspace, and had been for two hours, on their way to the Nova Luna base. The precious, self-refrigeration unit was in his inside pocket, and he was relaxing in one of the easy chairs in the lounge of their craft. Alan sat across from him, staring at the chessboard between them, but Linley knew he wasn't seeing it. Mark advanced his bishop and took the pawn. "Check."
"Yeah," Alan said, absently. He moved his king to one side. Linley brought his queen up.
"Mate in two moves, buddy."
"Yeah." Alan stood up. "I'm going to change course for Riskell."
Linley wasn't surprised. "All right. I'll put the chessboard away."
Alan nodded and vanished into the control room. Mark pulled the chair's safety webbing across his lap and scooped the chess pieces into their drawer. A moment later there was a jolt as the ship popped out of hyperspace. Half a minute later, a second jolt announced their hyperspace re-entry. Alan reappeared in the doorway.
Linley eyed him. "Somethin' eatin' at you, buddy?"
"Uh huh."
"Halthzor?"
"Yes."
"And Scwinthzor?"
"Yes." Alan made a face. "You know how I feel about Halthzor, Mark. He's caused me plenty of grief, and in any other circumstances I wouldn't care if he disappeared into a black hole for good. But the thought of Scwinthzor in charge of the Rovalli Sector gives me the chills."
"That makes two of us."
"Besides, I've heard some things about Scwinthzor that would curl your hair. You know about the rumors of his pitting animals and humans against each other in combat--like the Romans a couple of thousand years back?"
"I've heard 'em. You worried about what he might be doin' to Halthzor?"
Alan shrugged. "The Jils are a bloody lot. Public executions and so forth--but it wasn't Halthzor that thought them up."
"Jils didn't get to be the rulers o' the known galaxy by bein' soft, buddy."
"I know." Alan shrugged uncomfortably. "I can't help being an empath, Mark. If Scwinthzor wasn't in line for the throne I wouldn't mind if Halthzor died--although I'd rather not have it at the hands of a sadist."
"I know what you mean," Mark agreed, soberly. "I knew a few sadist types of our own species when I was a kid on Shallock. Didn't think much of 'em, either."
Alan shuddered.
"Didja send a message to the base--so Kaley won't worry about us?"
"Uh huh." Alan grinned. "And ducked back into hyperspace quick. I didn't want to give him a chance to say no. We'll be on Riskell in about eight hours."
**********
Riskell was a Jilectan owned world--one of the prettiest in the Rovalli Sector, due to the fact that many Jilectan nobles had their vast estates there, and large parts of the planet had been left in it's natural state as hunting preserves, or turned into beautiful parks for the pleasures of the upper and middle classes. There were relatively few towns and large cities, although these were heavily populated by lower class Jilectans and members of the lower--that is to say, non-Jilectan--species.
The base they were headed for was located in the city of Riffel, one of the northern continents. Riffel was a smaller city than Riskell, containing about 150,000 inhabitants. It was presently autumn here, and the morning air was crisp and cool. Linley shivered. He hated cold weather--always had. His home world was Shallock, where even the winter was warm. The equator of the planet was uninhabitable by humans and Jilectans alike and was only used by the temperature-hardy Arcturians and their insectile contemporaries from Voria. He had never seen snow until he was sixteen and a new recruit in the Viceregal Patrol. A lot had happened since then, he reflected wryly: his rise to Strike Commander of a Jilectan battlecruiser, his defection to the Terran Underground, and subsequent rise to full Colonel in the organization, which had turned out to be secretly a branch of Terran Military Intelligence. Not to mention his partnership with the Terran Underground's top psychic, Alan Westover. Who would have thought it of a street kid from the slums of Scaifen?
He glanced down. The aircar was in the uncontrolled traffic lane, floating leisurely over small, shabby houses in one of the poorer sections of Riffel. Alan brought them down on a narrow, poorly maintained street, drew up to an intersection and turned right. Ground traffic was sparse, consisting mostly of battered and aging private vehicles. At the third house, an ancient two-story with peeling white paint and a torn screen door, Alan pulled them into the driveway and cut the engine.
Linley glanced at his partner. Alan showed no particular enthusiasm to exit the car--a battered vehicle well in keeping with their surroundings.
"Don't feel much like visitin' ol' Dean, I'll bet."
Alan's tense face relaxed into a smile. "You know me too well. No, now that you mention it, I don't really want to visit Dean. He doesn't like me."
"Doesn't like you!" Linley was startled. "Everyone likes you!"
"Not Dean."
"Ah, he's just a little stiff around you 'cause o' your reputation and 'cause you advanced faster in rank than him."
"No, Mark. That's not it."
"Huh?"
"Travis Dean doesn't like me because I'm a psychic. He doesn't like Terran psychics."
Linley stared at his partner, for the moment struck completely dumb. Alan nodded and shrugged. "He's kind of a narrow minded guy. You remember I beat him at chess when we first met?"
"Well, sure, but..."
"He's never quite forgiven me for that, I think, but there's more. Down deep, Dean doesn't like Terran psychics."
"But... he's a member of the Terran Underground! I'm sure he's loyal... isn't he?"
"Oh yes, he is loyal. But he still doesn't like psychics."
"You're sure of this?"
Alan nodded. "I think he regards us as a sort of ... perversion or something. Oh, it's not a conscious dislike. He's probably not even completely aware of it himself." The psychic closed his mouth and looked away. "Don't mention this to anyone, Mark. Psychics aren't supposed to tell things like that about their comrades. I shouldn't have said anything."
"You damned well shoulda!" Linley felt a blaze of anger. "Well of all the pig headed--you ought to report it!"
"No, Mark."
"You should! The guy's the commander of an Underground base! He's got psychics under his command-- young kids with their sense of worth still developin'. A lot of 'em are a little shaken anyway 'cause o' that gristle the Jils deal out about Terran psychics. Then if they sense that one o' the people that's supposed to be protectin' 'em thinks they're a little weird, too ..."
"Young psychics don't get sent to Dean, Mark. I saw to that a long time ago--right after I made Captain, in fact. I went to Col. Rice at the Jaqali base--he's a psychic, too--and told him about Dean. Since then, any psychic kids that are discovered are sent to other bases."
"But--that ain't all of it. A guy in a position like his who doesn't believe in the cause he's fightin' for ..."
"That's why he hasn't advanced very fast, Mark. Oh, he believes in Terra's cause all right, and that makes him an adequate leader but he doesn't like psychics, and psychics are an important part of Terra's forces. We don't stand much of a chance against a race of psychics like the Jils without them. Dean's only had one promotion since I joined the Underground twelve years ago--do you realize that?"
"Yeah," Linley said, thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, there ain't any young psychics at this base, are there? In fact, there ain't many psychics at all."
"Only one who's been there any length of time," Alan said. "Palvin Griswold--and he's not an empath." Alan opened his door. "Let's go, Mark."
**********
(tbc)
