A Woman's Touch
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Previously:
"Good night," Angela and Sue chorused as the guards turned and left the way they had come. As their lights disappeared around the corner, Angela and Sue were leaping into the aircar. It lifted off with a jerk and rose over the outpatient building to their rear.
It hadn't been so difficult, really. Just a small illusion to intensify the guard's need ...
"Whew!" Sue looked across at her and grinned shakily.
Angela grinned back. "Nice work, Sue. You were *extreme*!"
And now, Part 5:
"So were you." Sue giggled nervously. "Now what do we do?"
"Well," Angela said, "Stage One is complete. On to Stage Two. They're going to realize that something isn't right before long, if they haven't already, so we need to make sure that they don't try to move Kevin. We're headed for the spaceport right now."
Sue nodded, her face growing serious. "You know," she said, "growing up, you hear things. There've been stories about the Terran Underground and all the things they've done. I was thirteen when we heard the news report about your cousin, and what happened when Mark Linley was taken by the Patrol, and what happened on the 'Patton'. It seemed like some kind of exciting story to me."
Angela nodded. "I know. I was seventeen. It wasn't exciting for him, though. It was life or death, the way it is now, for me." She smiled. "Oh, there's a difference, naturally. Alan and Mark are straight guys, and so naturally they don't have the same kind of relationship that Kevin and I do, but they've been partners and close friends since the beginning."
Sue nodded. "'Partners'. But it's not an ordinary partnership, is it? There's something different about it. You and Kevin are more than just partners, and more than just in love. There's something else."
Angela glanced sharply at her. She hadn't told Sue about the psychic partnership angle, but somehow her new friend had sensed that there was something that Angela wasn't telling her. There was more to Sue's psychic powers than just empathy. Of that Angela was growing confident. She frowned, trying to formulate what to say.
"Yeah," she said finally. "There is, but I can't explain until we're safe. I need to teach you how to shield your mind, and that's going to take more time than we have right now. As soon as we get a breather, though, I'll give you the basics."
"I think that would be a good idea if I'm going to be dealing with people like him." Sue jerked a thumb at their unconscious passenger in the back seat.
The spaceport was located at some distance from the outskirts of New London, its lights glowing blue in the darkness ahead of them. Above them, the sky blazed with stars. New Devonshire's star system was actually that of a double star, consisting of a G and an M, a red dwarf named inexplicably "Dis", that circled its primary in an orbit similar to that of Saturn in Sol's system. The larger of New Devonshire's two moons was sinking below the horizon, but the smaller moon and Dis were in the sky, a blotch of misty red that seemed to watch them balefully as the little aircar traced its unobtrusive path through the darkness. Angela kept the car carefully within the local speed limit and meticulously obeyed all the traffic laws, and within fifteen minutes she was easing the vehicle into a parking space in the center tier. She set the safety brake, cut the engine and released her safety webbing almost in one motion. Sue scrambled into the rear seat, and between them, the two young women fastened the unconscious Jilectan's hands behind him with a pair of restrainers designed to hold psychics. Sue used a second pair to fasten Sprinthvar to the aircar's metal frame and then held his head while Angela stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth.
"You know," the younger girl commented speculatively, "he'd be kind of handsome if it wasn't for those idiotic pink dangly earrings and the ringlets. Do you suppose they're natural?"
"I doubt it. Most upper class Jils have perms. It's the style."
Sue made an odd sound in her throat. "He just got lipstick on me! Good grief! He's wearing *makeup* -- eye shadow, and blush ... even mascara!" She stared at the alien. "He's wearing cologne or something, too. I can smell it. It's flowery -- sort of a mixture of roses and I think maybe kerosene. Angie, are some Jils ... I mean ..."
"Lots of upper class Jils wear makeup -- sort of like the old French court back before the French Revolution," Angela said. "Kevin told me that the Viceroy wears more makeup than most Terran women."
"Lord Halthzor?" Sue grinned suddenly. "Really?"
"Sure," Angela said. "It's Jil fashion."
"Wow!" Sue said. "Well, I sure hope that's one fashion statement that doesn't catch on in the Confederation. I don't know what I'd do if my date showed up wearing lipstick."
Angela giggled. "Me, either." She finished tying a scarf around the Jilectan's mouth to hold in the gag. "There, that does it." She turned in the seat and picked up her Patrol communicator. "Here goes."
She pressed the control to activate it and a fragment of speech emerged.
"... Hasn't shown up yet. He ditched his bodyguards. Claimed they were chasing a Terran psychic, but the guards never saw anything ... He sent them after this so-called psychic, and was gone when they got back."
"He sent you away, you say?"
"Yeah. Something about him getting disgusted with us. He was mad about the cigarette smoke and told me to come up here and wait for him. His bodyguards showed up about twenty minutes ago, looking for him."
The second voice swore softly. "What the devil's he up to this time?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. I'm expecting him any minute, I hope. We can't afford to foul this one up. Bronson's back from surgery; he's got tubes coming out of everywhere and looks like hell, but the doc says he's going to make it -- probably -- if he gets good care. We shouldn't move him for a couple of hours, though. I sure wish Sprinthvar'd show up and make the decision. Nobody around here's real friendly. This damned ulcer's killing me, too."
A third voice interrupted. "Would you like me to send another detachment of men, sir?"
"No, we have enough."
"Okay, sir. Thanks for the update."
"Fong out." The communication ceased. There was a pause.
Sue took a long breath. "Kevin's going to make it! Thank god!"
Angela nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Now we just need to get him out before they decide to move him." She swallowed again. "I was never into drama in school. I hope I can be convincing. Are you ready?"
"When you are."
The communicator came suddenly to life. "Fong to 'Orion'!"
"Oleson here, sir."
"We may have a problem." Fong's voice was curt. "Sprinthvar's bodyguards report finding a large net on the ground in the last place they saw Sprinthvar, with one of His Lordship's neck chains tangled in it. He still doesn't respond to our hail."
There was a long, charged silence, then the Strike Commander's voice returned. "I'll need those extra men to search the building and grounds. It looks like the Underground's work. They'll be after the prisoner now ..."
Angela nodded to Sue. "Give him the other shot." She pressed the transmit control. "Strike Commander Fong!"
There was dead silence for a moment, then Fong's voice replied. "Yes? Who is this?"
"Never mind that. I have Lord Sprinthvar. If you don't do exactly as I say ..."
"Now, wait a minute." It was Fong's voice. "I need to know ..."
Angela ignored him. "If you don't do exactly as I say, I'll kill him."
"Now look, lady ..."
"Shut up." She turned in the seat, covering the communicator with one hand and spoke softly to Sue. "Is he ready?"
Sue nodded.
Angela spoke into the com. "I will deal only with Strike Commander Fong. If anyone else shows up, I'll cut my losses and kill him. Are you receiving me, Fong?"
"Yeah." The officer sounded harried. "What do you want? Is it Bronson?"
"Bronson?" Angela laughed mockingly. "Are you kidding? I want money."
A pause. "This isn't the Terran Underground?"
Angela laughed again. "Okay, Fong, you do what I say or else. Be at the telephone booth on the corner of Apple and Third Street in half an hour."
"But --"
"If you aren't there, Lord Sprinthvar is going to be short a diamond-studded toe!" She glanced back at the now-conscious Jilectan and flipped her blaster to needle beam, nodding at the same time to Sue. The other girl ripped off the gag and Angela pressed the blaster to the Jilectan's smooth cheek. "Tell him, M'lord."
"She means it!" The Jilectan sounded scared but not panic-stricken. "Do as she says, Strike Commander!"
"M'lord! Are you all right?"
Angela cut him off. "Be there, Fong," she said, and cut the transmission.
"Wow!" Sue gave her a respectful look. "I don't think you need to worry. I almost believed you, myself!"
Angela started the engine and looked over her shoulder at Sue. Her stomach felt as if butterflies were fluttering around in there, and she felt shaky. Nerves, she told herself. This game she was playing was a very delicate balancing act, with Kevin's life depending on its success. She couldn't afford to make the slightest mistake. "Gag him again," she told Sue. "We've bought some time, but not much."
Sue turned back to the Jilectan. "Open your mouth, M'lord," she said, her voice carefully expressionless.
Sprinthvar spit at her. Angela moved without thinking, slapping the prisoner as hard as she could across the face. Her hand stung, but the Jilectan gave only a faint grunt of annoyance. Angela pushed the blaster against his nose. "Do that again, Jil," she said softly, "and I'll use the blaster butt. If you don't want a mouthful of broken teeth, mind your manners."
The alien glared at her, but did not repeat the action.
Angela spoke again. "Now open your mouth and let her gag you."
Reluctantly, Sprinthvar obeyed. Sue stuffed the handkerchief into his mouth and again secured it. Angela turned back to the controls and the aircar soared upward.
She took them toward town once more and settled into a parking lot across the street from the phone booth to which she had directed the Strike Commander. A glance at her wrist chronometer told her that Fong was due to arrive in twelve minutes. From the rear seat, she could sense Sprinthvar's venomous gaze on her back as she tuned her communicator to the phone's frequency and recorded her message. Sue had already ungagged Sprinthvar. Angela held the communicator toward him. "Tell him to obey, Your Lordship. I have nothing to lose by killing you, but if you cooperate, you'll get out alive. *If you cooperate*," she repeated, emphasizing the words. "You know the reputation of the Terran Underground. We keep our promises." She opened her shields fractionally to let the Jilectan get a look at the carefully crafted and tailored thought. "I want Bronson back, as you know, and I intend to recover him. In what condition I return you is strictly your choice. Do you understand me?"
Sprinthvar glared angrily at her, but spoke the words. "Obey, Strike Commander Fong. That is my order. Do as she says. My life depends on it."
Angela cut the communication line. "Thank you, M'lord. You probably saved your life with that order. Don't bother to gag him again, Sue. I have something here that works better." She took out a second syringe. "You don't have to worry, M'lord. This will just make you feel a little happy."
"What is it?" the Jilectan demanded, suspiciously.
"Sweetgrass," Angela said, shortly. "You've probably used it before, if I know Jils, so you shouldn't mind."
"How *dare* you!" the alien hissed. "You shall die hideously for this, Terran psychic!"
Angela ignored him. "Give it to him, Sue."
Sue did so. "I thought they use sweetgrass for interrogation."
"They do," Angela said, never removing her gaze from the Jilectan. "On humans. Jilectans use it as a recreational drug. It's not even illegal -- sort of like giving a Terran a good jolt of whisky. He'll be too drunk to give us any trouble in a few minutes."
"Degenerate Terran psychic!" Sprinthvar's words were already beginning to slur, and his eyes were taking on a slightly unfocussed appearance. "You shall die for this! I shall personally oversee ... oversee your exe ... exe ... death!" He was having difficulty speaking clearly by the end of the sentence. Angela's expression didn't change. Gradually, the Jilectan's expression lost its belligerence, becoming vague and dreamy. A faint smile curved his lips.
"That'll do it," Angela said. "The dose Holt got me was a heavy one. It should keep him cooperative for some time."
Sprinthvar giggled softly, obviously paying no attention to them. Angela switched on her communicator. "Let's see what the Patrol is up to."
For a moment, nothing came over the speaker. She frowned, then comprehended. "They've switched frequencies so we can't overhear them." She touched the tuner, specially designed by the Underground's experts, to locate Patrol transmissions. "Ah, there they are. They're using code, too. Hmmm ..."
"Can you understand it?" Sue asked.
"Huh? Oh, sure." Angela listened to the code issuing from the unit.
"What are they saying?"
Angela gestured for silence, still listening intently. "They're just talking about us -- and they're worried about what Halthzor's going to say when he discovers that his nephew's been kidnapped."
Sue nodded, smiling slightly. "I'll bet a few heads are going to roll when he finds out. I feel kind of sorry for the Strike Commander."
Angela did too, but at the moment, Kevin's deliverance from the execution chair took precedence over everything else. She nodded. "He'll survive," she said, as emotionlessly as possible. "The Jilectans spent a lot of money and effort training him for this position. They aren't going to execute him over something that wasn't his fault -- and they'll know it wasn't his fault once they get his report and read his mind."
"This Jil's going to be awfully mad at him, though."
"Oh, sure. But they'll do an official mind probe and find out that he's telling the truth, at least from his point of view. They'll figure rightly that he was taken in by a Terran psychic."
"I sure hope so. Here he comes."
A Patrol car had pulled up before the videophone booth across the street. A black clad figure leaped out and ran into the booth. Angela pressed the stud to activate the recording.
**********
Strike Commander Fong leaped from his aircar, glancing quickly at his chronometer. He was right on schedule.
The phone was shrilling. Man! This ... woman ... wasn't giving him much slack, was she? He jammed his thumb on the receive button. "Hello! This is Fong!"
The screen didn't light up. A cool female voice spoke from the device. "This is Sprinthvar's kidnapper. The Jil's still in good health, thanks to your prompt action. Now listen good. I want ten million credits for the safe return of pretty boy, and don't tell me you can't get it. Lord Sprinthvar has just kindly informed me that he's the Viceroy's nephew. I had no idea I had such a valuable package here."
Fong cursed under his breath. The voice was continuing. "I will deal only with *you* Fong. If I see any Patrol activity about, His Loveliness gets it and you'll never hear from me again. That also applies if I see any cop cars around. Your battlecruiser is to take off immediately and dock at the New Winchester Shuttleport. I'll talk to you again in half an hour at the videophone in the men's room at the Ho Chin Chinese Restaurant at 1502 Pagoda Street." The voice cut off abruptly to be replaced instantly by the voice of Lord Sprinthvar, sounding white hot with fury.
"Obey, Strike Commander Fong. Do as she says. That is my order. My life depends on it."
The phone went dead.
Cursing, Fong jammed his thumb into the disconnect button and turned to climb back into the aircar. Nitwitted Jil! Did he *have* to tell his kidnappers his rank and station, and no doubt his ancestry back to his blood relationship with the Warlord? Ten *million* credits! Halthzor was going to have a stroke when he heard about this!
Now, where the hell was Pagoda Street? Savagely, he jabbed the Datanet computer, located the address, and then dug in his pouch for another antacid tablet. This was the sixth he'd taken in the last hour, but dammit, he couldn't stand the burning any more. He needed to get some food down before the ulcer started to bleed again.
He punched the coordinates into the computer, one hand pressed to his burning stomach. The car soared upward and leveled off. This had happened to him once before when an Underground agent had somehow managed to steal a courier's briefcase, apparently right off the man's wrist, aboard the "Orion", while en route from Riskell to Corala, but this was infinitely worse. He'd ended up in the hospital that time with a combination of wounds inflicted by the Jil and a bleeding ulcer, but this time a Jil's life was involved -- the damned nephew of the damned Viceroy -- and, no doubt, Fong's life as well. How the devil had he gotten into this business, anyway? He should have followed his mother's advice and become a tailor in their little shop back home. His younger brother had, and was presently married, with three kids, two dogs, one cat and no ulcer ...
And, of course, there was that report from the bodyguards that the Jil had mentioned a Terran psychic. It was still possible that it really was the Underground behind this mess, but it was beginning to look more and more like the culprit was a criminal who had seized an opportunity. Not all psychics were in the Underground, after all, and a Terran psychic was likely to make a formidable criminal ...
He punched the com with unnecessary force. "Fong to 'Orion'. Come in."
"Oleson here, sir." The response was immediate.
"I've been in contact with the kidnapper, and she's presented her demands. She wants ten million credits for His Lordship's safe return."
There was an appalled silence. Then: "Ten *million* credits, sir?"
"Yes!" Fong said savagely. "Our damned Jil pup apparently told them his life's story."
There was a whispered obscenity in the background. Oleson's voice resumed. "Anything else, sir?"
"Yes. Contact the local police and tell them to keep away. If they show up, she'll kill him and run. Be sure they get it straight this time. *No* rescue attempts, on the pain of death. And no Patrol cars, either. Everybody's to stay put. We don't want to scare her into killing him."
"Yes, sir."
"And," Fong said, "you're to lift off at once and land at the New Winchester Shuttleport."
"What about Bronson, sir?"
"Leave him for the moment. He's under guard, and if we try to move him and he dies, the Viceroy will stick *us* in the chair. Just be sure he's guarded closely."
"Yes sir," Oleson said grimly.
"And contact Command. Let them know the situation. Have them get in touch with the Viceroy and find out what he wants to do."
"Yes, sir." Oleson sounded less than enthusiastic at the prospect.
"Fong out." He cut the transmission. Ahead, the Ho Chin Chinese Restaurant came into view, a fluorescent Chinese dragon above the door blinking blue and orange in the darkness. The aircar settled into the parking lot.
He glanced at his chronometer. Ten minutes. Quickly, he popped another antacid into his mouth and climbed from the car. Maybe he'd have time for something to eat before the call. He wasn't feeling at all well. His lips and fingers felt numb -- a sure symptom of too many antacid tablets, but his stomach still burned like fire.
He entered the restaurant, hardly aware of the heads which turned in his direction. The place fell silent. A waiter started to approach, then paused, looking uncertain.
"Table for one, sir?"
"No," Fong said. "Get me a glass of milk and something to eat. Make it snappy."
"What would you like, sir?"
"Anything! Just step on it."
"*Step* on it? Oh, of course. I understand, sir. Our egg rolls are excellent tonight."
"Fine." Fong was barely listening and was having trouble following the man's rapidly spoken English. "The men's room. Which way?"
"Right down that hall, sir, and to your left. You want ... *milk*, sir?"
"Yeah," Fong said, feeling like an idiot, and headed for the men's room. Behind him, he heard somebody say incredulously, "Milk?", and somebody else laughed.
He ignored them, pushing open the door to the men's room. The videophone shrilled as it closed behind him. He jabbed the button. "Fong here."
"Hello there," the voice that he was beginning to hate said. "You're making very good time, but I'm sorry to say I'm still not sure you're not being followed."
"I'm not," Fong began, but the voice continued without pause. "To be sure, be at the videophone booth in the lobby of the New London Opera House in half an hour. I'll have instructions for you then." The phone went dead.
Cursing wearily to himself, Fong pushed open the door of the men's room and hurried back down the short hall into the restaurant. The waiter met him with a closed beverage container and a small plastic bag. "Here you go, sir. That'll be six point four credits."
Fong snatched the articles and thrust a handful of credits into the man's palm. "Keep the change. What's the quickest way to the New London Opera House?"
The man looked incredulous. "The New London Opera House? Oh, you mean the New London Dance Hall, don't you sir?" He smiled confidingly. "Most patrolmen visit it on their first trip to New London. It's three blocks down and two over ..."
"No." Fong realized how stupid he must sound, but put on a bold face. "I want the New London Opera House. And I'm in a hurry."
Armed with the instructions, he leaped into his aircar a moment later, thrusting the pastry-like confection into his mouth. It was surprisingly good. He must remember the name. What were they called -- egg rolls? He didn't see any eggs, but then the marshhopper surprise they'd served in the mess hall last night hadn't had any marshhopper in it, either.
The New London Opera was apparently in full swing as Fong strode into the lobby, brushing past the man at the door who attempted to intercept him. He could hear a female voice wailing incomprehensibly at a pitch that made his helmet vibrate. As he came through the door, the videophone shrilled. He jabbed the button with his thumb. "Fong here."
"How good to hear your voice, Strike Commander," the woman's voice said mockingly. "Very well. You are to verify within half an hour that Lord Halthzor has received my demand for ten million credits and broadcast the information on the local radio station's frequency. Half an hour from now, you will be at the videophone booth at Sam's Bowling Alley on Lincoln Avenue, by the ice cream stand. That's on the corner of Lincoln and Melon. I'll give you my instructions for delivering the ransom then." The videophone went dead.
Fong sighed and drained the milk from its container. His stomach felt a little better, but not for long, he suspected. Without a word, he strode from the lobby of the opera house and back to his car.
**********
TBC
