Mombasa watched morosely as the boarders moved about his bridge. They were mostly small men and women, quick and lithe in their white space armor. A young man with the insignia of a Terran major on his suit stopped before him.
"Major Vogleman," he identified himself, crisply, "commanding the boarding party. There is a shuttle now attached to your cargo bay, Commander. Your men will file into it. No weapons will be allowed except hand stunners." He inclined his head slightly. "My compliments on your control of your men, Squadron Commander. There haven't been any incidents -- so far."
Mombasa regarded him a bit sourly. "One question, Mister Vogleman ..."
"That's Major!" the other man snapped.
"My error. One question, Major. Am I correct in assuming that you and your associates are psychics?"
Through the clear plastic of the young major's faceplate, Mombasa saw him grin. "So you figured that out," he said. "Yes, we are. You and I met once before -- in the company of Commander Broang and Strike Commander Linley."
Mombasa studied what he could see of the other man's face. "I *do* seem to recall you," he agreed. "You were the boy in the cell next to Linley's. odd -- it never occurred to me that you could be a psychic, too -- at least, not until later. I suppose it was you that opened the cells."
"No," the young man said. "Not exactly. I'm no telekinetic. It was Colonel Linley's plan from start to finish ... including the rest of that fiasco. If you ever see Squadron Commander Rotherfield again, you can tell him who he has to thank."
"I'm sure he'll be glad to know," Mombasa said, dryly.
"No doubt. Now, if you don't mind, we're in something of a hurry," Vogleman told him. "If you'll issue the appropriate orders ..."
This sounds vaguely familiar, have you posted this story?
James
PS. Love this story...
