Child's Play: 9/10
by Linda Garrick
Edited and Revised by Nancy Smith
Mark was ready when he arrived back at the farmhouse. Alan knew it was him, but nonetheless his heart gave a queer lurch at the sight of what appeared to be the tall, magnificently robed form of Lord Linthvar standing in the kitchen.
The Jilectan's body suit had been altered and padded, and Mark now wore the voluminous robes of a noble over all, giving him a bulkier appearance. He wore Linthvar's satin gloves, and to all appearances his own digits had grown to fit the fingers of the gloves. He had also apparently sprouted an extra finger and gained somewhere near six centimeters in height as well, and if Alan hadn't known better, he would have sworn the alien lord was standing before him.
Alan regarded the life-mask that his partner wore critically, and had to bestow his stamp of approval on it. It was chillingly realistic. Mark's waving, golden hair and regular features were completely concealed beneath the weak, decadent features and long, frizzed and braided locks of Lord Linthvar. Wilma Eldridge hovered about him, straightening robes, and tweaking the hair.
"There," she said finally. "You'll do. Now, for the final touch ..." She produced a large atomizer and proceeded to douse Linley with several generous blasts of perfume, from several directions, making sure to soak the robes thoroughly with the scent. "We want to make sure nobody can smell human on you."
Alan backed quickly up, waving his hands. "Ye gods!"
Linthvar's lips smiled haughtily at him. "You will kneel when you enter my presence, Terran worm!"
Alan made a rude noise. "Where did you get the perfume, Wilma?"
"Linthvar had a cosmetic case in his pocket. I guess he never goes anywhere without it."
"Great," Alan said. "Look, we'd better hurry. Julia --"
"Yeah, we know." Linthvar's features grimaced grotesquely. "Man, if she loses those babies, I'm gonna cut M'Lord apart with a rusty knife. Let's go."
They climbed into the waiting car, accompanied by Wilma's husband, John Eldridge, and another man named Mike Wilcox. Both Mike and the major were clad impressively as two of the patrolmen whose helmets had been brought back by the children. Alan crouched under the dashboard.
Mike took the controls and the car lifted, heading back toward the spaceport at high speed.
"Better let 'em know we're coming," Wilcox said. "Who sounds more like a 'trol, sir -- me or the major?"
"You do," Linley told him. "That's why I picked you. You're a Coralan native, and so is the 'trol you're impersonating."
"Oh. Okay; here goes." Wilcox pressed the control on his helmet. "This is Patrolman Jose Garcia. Come in, 'Titan'."
"This is the 'Titan'," a voice responded instantly. "Sublieutenant Iverson here. Where *are* you, Garcia, and is Lord Linthvar with you?"
"Yes sir, he is. We're en route to the ship, sir. We -- uh -- had to commandeer transportation."
"You *what*?"
Wilcox cleared his throat, sounding convincingly uneasy. "Well, sir -- you see, M'Lord thought he'd picked up traces of a Terran psychic, but -- well -- we were quite some distance from the ship when -- well -- he lost him. M'Lord ordered us to split up and search for the psychic and -- well, five of our men vanished. I'm afraid there might have been foul play, sir. Lieutenant O'Hara and Sergeant Curtis are among the missing."
"Oh." There was a silence and a muttered imprecation in the background.
"We'll need scouts to look for the missing men," Wilcox continued. "M'Lord ordered that as many as can be spared are to go. Here's the location --"
"Go ahead."
"West 40th and Olympus Avenue." Wilcox gave the location of a busy downtown intersection of Paff.
"Dispatching scouts now," the voice over the com reported. "Strike Commander Martin asks to speak with Lord Linthvar."
"Uh -- just a moment." Wilcox put a hand lightly over the speaker of his helmet, making sure that the listeners could hear him speak. "M'Lord, the Strike Commander requests --" He let his words trail off, paused a long moment and then removed his hand. "I'm very sorry, Sublieutenant, but Lord Linthvar doesn't wish to speak to the Strike Commander at this time."
Another pause. Then: "What's your ETA, Garcia?"
"Five minutes, sir."
Ahead, the lights of the spaceport blinked into view. Wilcox headed straight for the ship. Alan crouched down, waiting. They came to a halt.
**********
Mark watched the patrolmen pouring from the battlecruiser to escort His Lordship into the ship. Eldridge got quickly out of the aircar and opened the door for him and he emerged slowly and majestically, taking care to favor his left leg, glaring at the approaching Terrans. They quailed before him, snapping to attention. Mark strode forward, limping on the left leg. The patrolmen scurried aside and then fell in behind him, escorting him to the ship. He could sense their thoughts and rigorously repressed the urge to grin. The opinion of the crewmen of the "Titan" toward Lord Linthvar was far from complimentary.
Wilcox and Eldridge walked on either side of him, staring straight ahead. The others followed as Mark swept grandly across the landing field. One of the patrolmen started toward the parked aircar, but Wilcox turned, calling to him.
"M'Lord doesn't want anyone near the car until he's had time for careful scans!"
The man stopped and saluted. "Yes, M'Lord! Sorry, M'Lord!"
Mark didn't acknowledge, but proceeded on into the ship.
Strike Commander Martin was waiting at the boarding ramp. He saluted smartly as the supposed Jilectan sailed by. Mark recognized him, all right. This was Strike Commander Jael Martin, formerly the second in command of the "Peacemaker" during the Battle of Ladreen. Alan had observed once or twice that if not for the man's size, he would have suspected him of being a psychic. Martin was known to be a brilliant, exceptionally intuitive officer, and not a man to be taken lightly.
"Welcome aboard, sir." The Commander's voice was low and properly subservient. "We were concerned about you."
Mark swept by without replying -- totally in character, he knew, for a miffed Jil. He could sense Martin's thoughts and emotions plainly. The man was an easy read. Martin had been upset at the Jilectan's apparent disappearance, as well as annoyed with the knowledge that Linthvar had remained incommunicado intentionally, thereby putting *him*, Strike Commander Martin, on the spot. He was also concerned about the prisoner. Her labor was progressing, and it was obvious that before long the baby would be born. If the prisoner died in the process, Martin would be blamed.
Mark entered the ship, the patrolmen trailing in his wake. Patrolman Garcia and Smithfield, alias Wilcox and Eldridge, his bodyguard, remained beside him as he headed for the main lift. The other patrolmen and the Strike Commander hesitated, unsure as to whether they were to follow. Linley turned abruptly and gestured imperiously to them. They fell back radiating various emotions, mostly relief.
But Martin, Linley noted, was not relieved. He was worried and a little suspicious. Mark turned his back and proceeded into the lift, accompanied by his two bodyguards. The doors slid shut, cutting off his view of the Strike Commander, and the car accelerated upward.
He drew a deep breath and glanced at Eldridge. The Major gave a strained smile. Mark smiled in return, feeling the mask stretch accordingly. This was going to have to be done fast. Their only hope of success was to move so quickly that there would be little time for it to occur to the men of the "Titan" that the odd circumstances might be a rescue attempt by the Terran Underground.
Sixth deck -- the prison level. The lift slid to a smooth stop and the doors slid aside. Guards were stationed at intervals all along the corridor. Martin was taking no chances, he thought, of a member of the Underground infiltrating his ship's defenses and rescuing the prisoner -- as had happened too often with important captives in the past.
Mark limped down the corridor past the guards, never glancing at them. They saluted smartly, and he could feel them watching him as he went by. There was the brig, guarded by two men, one on either side of the door. He gestured imperiously to them, and the man standing on the right turned quickly to open it for the supposed Jilectan. Mark strode through, his bodyguards flanking him.
There were two guards in the room as well, one beside the door and one standing in front of the brig's control panel. Across the center, he could see the lightning-flicker of the forcefield and beyond that barrier were the prisoners. Julia lay on a fold-down cot, clutching her abdomen and sobbing hysterically. Beside her was seated the ship's doctor and, secured to the bulkhead, Linley saw a second prisoner: a small man with wiry red hair -- Scotty's father. There was no sign of his mother, though. Alan had been correct. Somehow, Mrs. Pinks must have escaped.
He gestured imperiously to Eldridge, who stepped forward, speaking to the guards. "Bring the prisoners. Quick."
The guards glanced at Mark in surprise. Linley stared straight ahead, his expression haughty and aloof. The man beside the control panel turned obediently and pressed a green button. The forcefield vanished.
Eldridge jerked a thumb at the prisoners. "Bring them. M'Lord is moving them to another, more secure location. You, bring the woman! You, the man."
The patrolmen's minds were a mixture of puzzlement and apprehension. Mark scanned rapidly, searching for the location of any possible third prisoner, but there was none. No third prisoner had been taken.
So much the better. He hadn't really wanted to hang around any longer, not with Julia so clearly in labor. The guards were coming forward, one of them carrying Julia and the other leading the man. The doctor followed, radiating emotions of uncertainty. "Shall I come, too, sir? The woman is about to give birth."
Mark ignored the question, his gaze never wavering from the bulkhead. The guards glanced uncertainly at one another and the doctor looked questioningly at Eldridge. Eldridge glanced apprehensively at his supposed master and then nodded.
Dr. M'Boto stepped quickly aside as the patrolmen exited with the prisoners and then followed. Mark forced himself to keep his eyes on the bulkhead and not on Julia. He walked ahead, hearing her hoarse sobs behind him. Another voice reached him, anguished and wracked with sobs as well. "Jiji! Are you all right? I'm right here, darling!"
They reached the lift and entered. The car accelerated downward and stopped. They disembarked, Mark still limping imperiously ahead, his senses scanning like radar for possible trouble. And there it was, waiting for them in the form of the Strike Commander.
**********
Chapter 10
Strike Commander Jael Martin was worried. Lord Linthvar had returned to the ship at last, after two arduous hours of waiting, but for some reason his return had not eased Martin's anxiety. Five patrolmen, including the sergeant and the lieutenant that had accompanied M'Lord on his expedition, had vanished without a trace. The Jilectan's bodyguard, Garcia, and a second patrolman, Smithfield, had returned with M'Lord and remained with him since, but all the others had been sent away. No explanations had been offered.
Damned, crazy Jils! Martin cursed under his breath. What kind of game was he playing, anyway? And how in hell was Martin supposed to do his job when Linthvar didn't *tell* him anything?
Something was wrong! Dammit, he was sure of it! But what?
Martin paced his control room, aware of the anxious looks that his men were throwing his way. His Subcommander entered the room, his dark, bushy brows drawn together. Westly Powers was a tall, muscular black man. His head, for reasons that Jael could never understand, was shaved completely, displaying his shining black scalp.
"Strike Commander --"
"Yeah, Powers, what is it?"
"Lord Linthvar's taking the prisoners out of the brig, sir."
"He's *what*?"
"Yes, sir. Heading for the airlock with them, from what I could see. You didn't know?"
"No!" Martin swore savagely and went past Powers out of the control room before he broke into a run, the feeling of urgency growing in him. Something *was* wrong! All his instincts told him so.
Powers was right behind him, also running. He didn't speak again, perhaps realizing that now wasn't the best time. The lift sensed their approach and slid open for them. They boarded and the car accelerated downward, coming to a smooth stop on the boarding deck. The doors slid aside and they disembarked, just as the doors of the second lift opened, revealing Linthvar, Garcia, Smithfield, two patrolmen escorting the prisoners, and Dr. M'Boto.
"M'Lord!" Martin came to attention and saluted. "I must respectfully request that you inform me if you intend to move the prisoners. Where are you taking them, sir?"
Linthvar's hand moved. Half expecting it, Jael tried to duck. The alien's fist caught him a stunning blow that sent him staggering back. Powers stood at rigid attention as Linthvar's furious gaze turned on him.
Through a swimming blur, Jael saw the Jilectan's hand lift and then drop. Powers didn't move. Then Linthvar turned abruptly and strode away down the corridor toward the airlock, the Terrans scurrying along after him.
Jael shook his head to clear it. Powers was bending over him, a handkerchief in one hand. "Here, sir. You're sort of bleeding."
He took the article and dabbed his mouth. Powers put a hand under his elbow, helping him to his feet. "Come on, sir. You'd better go to your quarters."
"Wes --"
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell me somethin'. What would you do if you were an Undergrounder here on Bellian, and an important member of your organization had been taken by the Patrol -- and you somehow managed t'get your hands on a Jil -- *the* Jil in charge o' the whole affair?"
Powers stared at him, his brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. What are you thinking, sir?"
"I'm thinkin' -- I'd make use o' the Jil. I'd get my comp workin', makin' scans of him. I'd construct a life-mask an' get the biggest Terran I could, dress him in the Jil's clothes, put the mask on him, an' send him to the ship t'get the prisoner out. An' I'd check over the 'trols an' figure out the least known in the bunch, an' stick a couple o' my men in their place. An' then, I'd have one o' those guys call in -- one with a Coralan or Shallockian accent -- an' tell some cock an' bull story about all my men disappearin' except those two, an' t'send out as many scouts as possible t'some well-populated part o' the city where they couldn't hope t'find the missin' men, even if they *were* there, which they ain't, o'course. An' while all that was goin' on, I'd send my man dressed as the Jil on board an' have him take the prisoner out. Nobody questions a Jil. The only problem, o'course, is that he wouldn't be able to speak. But then, Jils *don't* speak unless they want to!"
"Holy --"
Jael compressed his lips and dabbed blood from his chin. "I'd better try an' stop him. If I'm wrong, he'll kill me."
"But if you're right --"
"Yeah. C'mon." Jael ran toward the airlock.
**********
tbc
