Child's Play: 2/?
by Linda Garrick
Edited and revised by Nancy Smith
Chapter 1
(14 years later)
"Two weeks in the wilderness!" Mark Linley grinned widely at the three children seated across from him. His twin daughters wiggled with excitement, while Alan's son, nearly six-year-old Mark (Marky) Westover, sat perfectly still, his cheeks flushed a bright pink.
"You think the girls can take it?" he asked, in a loud undertone. "They ain't never really roughed it like this before."
Jennifer glared at him. "Neither have *you*, stupid!"
"Yeah, but I'm a *boy*."
"Whoop-de-doo doo! I can take anything you can and more!"
Marky rolled his eyes up and flashed a tolerant grin at the adult beside him. Mark had to hide his own grin. "Cool it, you two."
Jennifer was on her feet. "What makes you think you --"
"Sit down, baby!" Mark spoke sharply to his headstrong daughter. "Marky's no better than you, and you know it." His attempts to minimize his Shallockian accent were coming along, he reflected absently. He didn't have to think so hard about it anymore, and his grammar was improving as well. He'd been working on the problem ever since his daughters had first started to talk, and Julia had remarked in dismay that they were copying his speech patterns. Ever since, he'd been making a strong effort to correct his speech, to the amusement of many of his colleagues and to his wife's near-disbelief.
"He's a little *snot*!" Jennifer sat down and glared balefully at the little boy.
Marky had turned pink. "Speaking of snots, your nose is running," he told her with dignity.
Jennifer voiced a shriek of rage and leaped at him. Marky performed a lithe twist and somehow eluded her clutching hands. He rolled to the deck of the little scout ship and Jennifer leaped after him, still emitting unintelligible sounds. Jill, Jennifer's twin, giggled excitedly, clapping her hands, and Marky's father, Alan, came running out of the latrine, his sonic razor in one hand and his shirt unsealed. "Hey!"
Jennifer scrambled across the deck after Marky. The boy rolled sideways, but this time he failed to elude his furious little attacker and the two rolled sideways in a tangle of arms and legs.
Mark and Alan waded in, dragging the combatants apart. Linley thrust his daughter back into her chair.
"Siddown!" he bellowed. "You ignore me again, young lady, and it'll be a spankin' -- ing," he added in afterthought.
"But he said --"
"I don't care what he said. I told you to sit down!"
Jennifer crossed her arms and glared defiantly at young Marky. "I *hate* you! You're a mean little twerp ... a ... a male chauv'nist ... PIG!"
"Do you know you spit when you talk?" Marky still didn't raise his voice, although he sounded a little breathless.
Jill giggled and Jennifer turned furiously on her sister. "Shut *up*!"
Jill sobered instantly. Jennifer turned back to Marky. "Did you know your hair's standin' up all over your head -- like wires? Wirehead! Wirehead!"
Linley already knew what the boy's response would be. Little Marky Westover had inherited his father's talent of never losing his temper when engaged in battle, either verbal or physical. He rewarded Jennifer's efforts with a mocking grin and drew a tissue from the box beside him, extending it to the little girl. Jennifer voiced another enraged scream and started to stand up. Mark pushed her back into the chair. Secretly, he felt a good deal of sympathy for her, but the kid needed to learn control. The chances were good that she'd have to deal with young Marky Westover for the rest of her life, and she'd better learn how to do it without resorting to violence. Besides, although he was two months younger than she, he was slightly heavier and somewhat stronger, and the chances were that he'd beat her if it came to strength.
He caught Alan's eye. Time for a distraction. "Hey, you kids ever hear about the time Marky's Aunt Angie and your Uncle Kevin were lost in the forests of Liskell?"
Jennifer was still glaring at her tormenter, but Jill pulled eagerly at her father's sleeve. "Tell us, Daddy. Please!"
"Okay, baby. Well, you see, Marky's great uncle, Roger, had got himself in trouble with the Jilectans 'cause he'd been too lucky in the stock market, and Alan an' m -- I, were sent to get him and his family out ..."
He was sure they'd heard this story before but they loved to hear him tell it. Usually a tale of their parents' adventures would break up the kids' battles, and once again it worked. Linley had discovered in the past few years that he had a natural gift when it came to storytelling. Alan did, too, for that matter. In fact, it was from listening to Alan that Mark had perfected his own talent. Alan knew exactly what tonal pitch to use, and exactly how long to hold out the suspense and from him Mark had improved and honed his own ability. The kids listened, their eyes shining and their former disagreement forgotten.
"The 'trol on the ground made a grab for Angie," Mark told them, his voice tense with drama. "But Angie is a precog, so she sensed him and jumped sideways. The guy missed, but Angie lost her balance and stumbled. As she fell, the ground gave under her and --"
A shrill beep interrupted him. Alan glanced at the screen above the control room door. "Normal space in ten minutes."
"Finish the story, Daddy! Please!"
He grinned. "Okay."
This was great, he thought as he watched the small, rapt faces before him. At first, when the girls had been born, he had wondered secretly if he would be a good father and, even more secretly, if he would even like fatherhood. But now, thinking over the last six years, he decided that he wouldn't have missed it for anything. It had been trying at times, of course. When these little girls had been less than two, Mark's wife had given birth to a son, and then, two years later, another set of twins -- boys, this time, and was presently in the sixth month of her fourth pregnancy -- another set of twins. He would soon be the father of seven psychic children, and he had to admit that, in spite of the sleepless nights, the 0200 feedings and the dirty diapers, it was great. Matt Phillips, the Senior Medical Officer of the base, and their personal friend, had warned Julia and Mark to give it a rest after her third pregnancy, and they had truly tried, but Julia was unable to tolerate the hormonal treatments to curb fertility, and typically had conceived anyway. They'd have to be super-careful after these kids were born, he decided. Seven babies in six years was a bit much, even for a tough lady like Julia. The Terran Underground encouraged a high birth rate, particularly among its members that carried the psychic gene like the Westovers and Linleys, but enough was enough -- for the time being, anyway.
Alan had gone into the control room, and now his voice emerged. "Two minutes. You coming to help me with the landing, Marky? You said you wanted to before."
The little boy stood up, obviously torn between his desire to hear the rest of the story and the desire to perform the important landing with his dad. Dad won, and Marky went into the control room, but not without a longing backward glance.
Jill squirmed. "Let's wait 'til we get there, Daddy. Marky'll miss the best part o' the story."
"'Of'," Mark corrected automatically.
Jennifer wrinkled her nose. "Who cares! Serves him *right*! Go on, Daddy!"
Mark grinned. "I'll tell it to him tomorrow, hon," he assured Jill.
"But we'll be camping by then!"
"People who are camping tell lotsa stories, sweetie. Not much else to do with their evenings from what Alan tells me."
"Well ... okay." Jill glanced over at her sister. "You know, if you'd just be nicer to Marky, he'd be nicer to you."
"Who *cares*! He's a little snot! Go on, Daddy!"
Mark hid a grin and continued his narrative. The children listened raptly, hardly noticing the jolt that announced their emergence from hyperspace. A few minutes later, a faint whine of air against the hull sounded and Mark knew they were entering the fringes of Bellian's atmosphere.
Bellian was an earth-like planet that was owned by the Terran Confederation, and was famed for its natural beauty and vast unexplored areas. It was a sportsman's paradise, boasting beautiful, fruitful lakes and rivers, forests and vast mountainous areas. The natives of the planet, of which Mark's wife was one, had deliberately maintained its rural nature, consistently vetoing attempts by outside interests at industrial development and maintaining only the necessary military establishments for the planet's defense -- which was a good idea, Mark reflected, since in the early days of Terra's encounter with the Jilectan Autonomy, the Jils had attempted to annex the planet. Only the instant resistance by the Terran Confederation had caused the aliens to back away, much to everyone's surprise. Mark wasn't surprised. The Jilectans had every intention of acquiring the worlds of the Confederation by other means. What was the point of getting into a destructive war over even as desirable a world as Bellian, when they would be able to achieve their goals without violence simply by waiting a few decades?
Bellian was a rich planet. It's main sources of income were agriculture and tourism, both of which were highly lucrative and successful. Potential immigrants were carefully screened before even being allowed to apply for citizenship, and even once the application was made and accepted, the waiting period before final citizenship was granted was twice as long as for any other planet in the Confederation. Individuals with criminal records and non-productive persons were summarily turned down. However, even considering its rules and restrictions, Bellian had no lack of applicants. It was a virtual resort world, with some of the most beautiful scenery found anywhere in the Sector. Those who lived there loved it, and because of the careful screening of immigrants, crime was minimal. Penalties for illegal activities were extremely harsh and swiftly administered, drawing frequent protests from other planets of the Confederation, but the natives of the world were adamant. The Confederation worlds were semi-autonomous, and set their own laws, and the inhabitants of Bellian were defiant and independent souls, fiercely protective of their planet and way of life.
The planet was not without problems, of course. One area of the larger northern continent frequently endured quakes of varying magnitudes, and the monsoons that swept the equatorial regions were well-known throughout the Sector. The Southern Ring of Fire boasted volcanoes in record numbers, and the area was uninhabitable, but those were relatively minor problems, and Mark had no intention of having to deal with them. He didn't even plan to take the famous aircar tour over Volcano Range, which was the financial solution of Bellian's natives to the otherwise useless area of land. This camping trip had been a long time in the planning, and Linley fully expected to enjoy himself.
It had been tough, of course, for the two of them to leave their wives behind. Julia had wanted to come, but Matt Phillips had flatly forbidden it. Alan's wife, Lyn, had also wanted to come, but she was in her eighth month, with the couple's fourth child, and the doctor had advised against it as well.
"Are there any Jils on Bellian, Daddy?" Jennifer asked, as the story concluded. "Will we get to see one?"
"No Jils, sweetie."
"Aw, shoot! I wanted to see a Jil! I've never seen a Jil, and you and Mamma and Alan and Lyn have! It's not fair!"
"Why d'you want to see a Jil?" Mark grinned in amusement at his eldest daughter.
"'Cause I'd like to take one hostage, like Angie did the time Uncle Kevin was captured!"
"Take one *hostage*!" Mark managed to refrain from laughing. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Jennifer looked insulted. "Aunt Angie did it!"
"Aunt Angie's a little bigger and older than you, and she had Sue to help her."
"I've got Jill to help *me*, and besides, size doesn't matter if you're the one with the blaster. That's what you always say, Daddy."
"Yeah, that's true, baby. You're a good student."
"So am *I*!" Jill put in.
The voice of a Bellian native spoke over the intercom. "This is the Paff Spaceport. We have you on our scanners. State your identities and intentions."
"Mark and Alex Lawson," Alan's voice replied. "Three children, Jennifer, Jill and Mark, here for vacation purposes. We registered with the Central Tourism Agency three weeks ago."
There was a short silence. Then: "You are cleared to land, Mr. Lawson, and special arrangements have been made, as you are probably aware, waiving your requirement to pass through Customs. Dock at Landing Pad 442 and Proceed to Hangar 442-M. Have an enjoyable stay."
"Thank you," Alan responded. The whine of atmosphere on the hull was growing gradually louder. "Good job, Marky."
"Thanks, Dad." Marky sounded smug.
**********
Chapter 2
"Telephone for you, Bert."
Lambert Hanz Hazelbaar looked up from the luggage that he was loading onto the antigrav cart at the Paff Spaceport. The man who had summoned him vanished back into the Baggage Handler's office and Lambert, after a moment's hesitation, followed. Had they found him out?
They had. Less than a minute later, he emerged from the office, flushed and furious. How had the immigration authorities managed to uncover that damned incident? It had been twelve years ago, and he'd been sure his tracks were well-covered.
But apparently not well enough. The Puritans that lived on this condemned planet insisted on a spotless record. One little indiscretion with a 16-year-old girl was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, apparently. Of course, the fact that she had been the daughter of a high Terran official hadn't helped. Blast it!
He hadn't meant to hurt the kid. He'd had a little too much to drink, that was all. What had she expected, getting him all fired up like that, and then suddenly throwing him into reverse? And the plastic surgeons had done wonders on her, anyway. The scar was all but invisible -- he'd looked while she'd been in the courtroom. And besides, he'd paid for his crime -- a thousand times what it was worth, he was sure. Three years in a penal colony and a horrendous fine that had left him practically a pauper.
His father had helped pull him out of it, of course. He had pulled strings, and Bert had managed to get his name changed, and adopted a new identity. An exorbitant amount of cash had been doled out in order to have his picture and retinal pattern erased from the Terran crime database, but it had all been for nothing. Someone had forgotten something, and the good old Bellian authorities had found out. The upstanding, talented, hardworking Lambert Hazelbaar had become once more the heinous Herbert Malone, playboy, gambler, one-time successful (if slightly underhanded) businessman, who had been convicted twelve years ago for the aggravated sexual assault of a minor.
Seething, he returned to his task of unloading the luggage from the rack onto another dolly. This was it, then. The Bellian authorities, in their infinite compassion, had given him forty-eight hours to get his affairs in order and get off Bellian. He would collect his paycheck, pack his belongings and leave this damned world on the next possible flight. Now that the thing had happened, he couldn't wait to get away. Stupid authorities, stupid, loathsome resort world, and stupid *him* for ever trying to immigrate here in the first place!
Penniless, he had found it necessary to acquire a job, and the only employment he had been able to land had been this silly, porter's job. Bellian wasn't for him, anyway -- never had been. Why, even the nightclubs and casinos on this backward planet were strictly regulated. You couldn't find a girl under eighteen anywhere.
His attention was distracted by a shrill, childish voice and he turned his head to see two little girls passing, hand in hand. Hugh had always liked young girls, but these were a little too young even for his taste. Still, in four or five years ...
He watched them with interest. They were obviously identical twins, and they reminded him vaguely of someone. He guessed their ages at about five Terran years, their forms tiny and delicate. Long, wavy golden blond hair, pulled back into ponytails, hung to their waists, and their eyes were bright blue, their faces sweet and impish. Hugh's glance traveled over their small, childish forms, clad in smart, brightly-colored sporting outfits of identical design, but of contrasting colors -- one lime green and the other hot pink. They were chattering to each other: rich kids, he thought, clearly here on vacation. Yes, there was their father, hurrying up beside them. Big bozo, Hugh thought, but with copper-red hair, unlike that of his daughters. His face was a masculine version of theirs, though -- a disgustingly rugged, pretty-boy face, square-jawed and handsome, with eyes the same color as those of the two girls. Hugh didn't like fathers like him -- big and intimidating. They tended to cramp his style.
Wait a minute! Hugh stared as the man passed. That guy looked awful familiar. Where had he seen that face, that sharp, handsome profile, before?
It looked -- He couldn't be sure, of course, but the fellow looked like one of those posters he had seen of Mark Linley.
He watched as the man caught up to the little girls, taking their hands and leading them toward the exit. *Was* it Linley? Man! It sure looked like him! But how could he be sure? He couldn't, of course, unless ...
Hugh followed the guy, visions of the reward money offered for this famous criminal floating before his eyes. Why, that kind of cash would keep him in luxury for the rest of his days. With it, he would be able to offer enough to permanently erase his identity, to live at ease for the rest of his life on any planet he chose.
His heart jumped as another man joined the first on the walk outside the spaceport exit. Yes! Exactly as Hugh had imagined, the companion of the suspect was a short, slender man. His hair was, unlike that of the photos of Alan Westover, a mousy brown color, but wouldn't people like Linley and Westover take steps to change their more prominent features when venturing into public? Yes, of course they would! And look at the little boy the newcomer was holding by the hand. Yes! The little guy's hair was exactly like that of Alan Westover's in the posters that Hugh had seen. A close relative, no doubt; perhaps even the son of the famous criminal ...
Hugh tried to get a good look at the shorter man's face. It *could* be Westover. The features were certainly similar, even though his eyes were brown, and not the brilliant green on the wanted posters. Still, Hugh was certain that the two notorious criminals were before him. Why, the combined rewards for these two would not only allow him to live at ease; it would keep him in wine, women and song for the rest of his days and beyond. Visions of the fabulously expensive life-extending herb, Lemke, floated before his eyes.
An air-taxi had pulled up, and the man who looked like Mark Linley was speaking to the driver. Hugh heard his voice faintly -- something about camping in the Washington Peaks area to the north of Kilkenny Lodge.
The driver got out of the car to load their baggage into the trunk. The children began to climb into the rear seat of the vehicle, and Hugh got another, better look at the two little girls. Rumor said that Linley had married the famous Jil killer, Julia Austell. So, if this was Linley, those two little girls were Austell's daughters. Yes, it made sense. Julia Austell, herself, had been a twin, and twins were more likely to produce twins, weren't they? Yes, those two little girls looked like the famous Giant Killer. That was who they had reminded him of when he had first seen them. It all made perfect sense.
Of course, it might all be perfectly wrong, too, but Hugh didn't think so. Luck had finally chosen to smile on him.
The small man glanced uneasily around and Hugh shrank quickly back, turning away.
"Move it, Frank." He barely caught Linley's words. "Alan's getting worried."
Alan! The name seemed to vibrate through his brain. His suspicions *must* be correct! The coincidence was just too much! He turned back to the building and after a moment of indecision, stepped into the luggage routing office. These new arrivals had probably been on that last, private ship. It shouldn't be too hard to get the names of the passengers. He moved over to an unoccupied comp.
One of the clerks glanced at him. "Can I help you, Bert?"
"Uh ... yeah, maybe. That last private flight that came in? What were the names of the passengers?"
"Why?"
"I think I might know 'em."
The man shrugged. "Okay." He pressed a button. "Private yacht 'Lady Luck', belonging to brothers Mark and Alex Lawson, here for vacation with their three kids."
"Alex? Are you sure it's Alex?"
The man checked. "That's what it says. Why?"
"Okay, thanks. I guess I was wrong." Hugh gave him a grin. "See you around, Bill."
"Sure, no problem." Bill turned back to his work.
Hugh left the room, thinking hard. Alex. Was it possible that he had mis-heard; that the big man had said Alex and not Alan? But if so, why had he said that his companion was getting worried? People on vacation, especially rich people, weren't supposed to worry. No, he had heard correctly. Alan was getting worried, and the reason he was worried was that he had sensed Hugh watching him. Alan Westover was one of the criminal Terran psychics. It was rumored that his abilities exceeded even those of the Jils, themselves, so of course he would have sensed Hugh watching him. That made perfect sense, too.
And the little boy ... Hugh's forehead furrowed in memory. He had been like Alan Westover, with the dark, curly hair. And his eyes ...
His eyes had been green. Like Westover's.
The coincidence was just too much. With a deep breath, Hugh headed for the nearest videophone.
**********
tbc
