The Mines of Kuloghi: 4/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VI
“What the hell?” Mark gasped.
Julia swiveled the copilot’s seat toward him. “What’s the matter?”
“Ouch!” Linley grabbed his ribs. “He’s in a fight o’ some kind! Alan! Alan – Ow!”
“What is it?” Julia cried. “Is he all right?”
“Just got a kick in the mouth –“
“Patrol!” Julia whispered.
“No, I don’t – Ouch! He’s takin’ a beatin’ –Wait –“
“What happened?” Julia prodded as Mark fell silent. Linley didn’t reply.
“Mark, are you still linked with him?”
No answer.
“Mark, what do you see?”
Linley glared at the control panel. “Nothin’! Absolutely nothin’! The fight’s over. Dammit, I wish I was a psychic!”
“Who kicked him in the mouth? Was it a patrolman?”
“Not unless he took his boot off first. That was a bare foot.” Linley fell silent, frowning in puzzlement.
“Is he all right?”
“I guess so. Anyway, he was still alive when the contact broke.” Linley tapped a button on the control panel. “This suspense is killin’ me. Where are we, anyhow?”
“About another hour.”
Linley swore under his breath.
“Couldn’t you see what was going on?” Julia asked.
“No, I ain’t a psychic, remember. Just felt the bumps – and the fear. Kid was fightin’ for his life.”
“But you’re sure he –“
"Oh yeah, he won, all right – at least, I think he did. Little guy’s quite a scrapper.” Linley’s voice held real pride. “He wasn’t scared no more when the contact broke, so he musta won.”
“Unless they hit him with a stunner,” Julia said.
“Nah!” Linley shook his head firmly. “I’d’ve known. He’s still alive an’ kickin’, but I’m sure itchin’ to get there.” He rubbed his ribs. “He must be pretty bruised up. Felt like just the activity hurt him.” He fell silent again, a slight frown on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You act like something else is still bothering you.”
“Can’t quite put my finger on it,” he said slowly, "but there was somethin’ different about that contact. I wonder –“
“I thought psychics aren’t supposed to be able to link when one of them’s in hyperspace,” Julia said suddenly.
“I ain’t a psychic,” Linley said glumly. “If I was it’d make things a helluva lot easier. But hyperspace has never made a bit o’ difference with us. Don’t ask me why.”
Julia said nothing. Linley continued to frown, and then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Got it!”
“Got what?”
“He didn’t call my name!” Linley said. “Whenever he’s linked with me before, he’s always called my name. This time he didn’t.”
“What difference does that make?”
Linley shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe none. But I gotta feelin’ it does. There’s no reason for him to change all of a sudden like that. I wonder –“
**********
VII
Alan awoke suddenly, a thrill of apprehension running along his nerves. It was dark and cool inside the tent, and around him were the sounds of slumber. His body ached and, as he blinked, bright lights danced in the darkness before his eyes.
He sat up quietly, moving cautiously as pain stabbed him in the side. Something was wrong. Sweat prickled on his skin and he strained his eyes, trying to see through the darkness.
“Dalik!” he whispered.
There was no reply. Alan crawled carefully over to a huddled form and shook its shoulder. “Dalik!”
The native stirred instantly. “Yes, sir?”
“You awake?”
“Yes, sir.” Dalik sat up. “You has changed your mind, sir? She is right here.”`
Alan was too worried to be embarrassed. “No. Listen to me, Dalik. Something’s wrong.”
Dalik tensed. “What?”
“I don’t know. Something’s about to happen. I think we ought to get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” Dalik didn’t seem to question Alan’s nebulous warning. He shook his wife. “Sonji –“
A scream tore through the night and Alan came to his feet, barely feeling the invisible knives that jabbed him in the side. Dalik also jumped to his feet, grasping Sonji by the wrist.
“Peacer raid!” he hissed. “You comes, sir. Quick!”
Alan stumbled beside him to the flap of the tent. They went out, Sonji between them, and lights flashed on less than ten meters away. The night echoed with terrified screams, mingled with the soft hum of stunbolts.
They ran toward the oasis, away from the camp, hearing shouts and confusion behind them. Alan stumbled, his legs weaving unsteadily. Dalik grabbed his arm.
“Hurry, sir!”
He tried to obey. They dashed across the sand.
Huge figures loomed suddenly out of the night in front of them and lights blazed on, dazzling them. Alan heard Sonji scream shrilly.
A stunbolt hummed, just brushing him and the tingling shock sent him sprawling. A heavy weight landed hard on his back and pain lanced through his ribcage.
His wrists were yanked behind him and bound with brutal efficiency. Other hands caught his ankles and bound them as well.
“Here ya go, Lou.” The words were in Basic, the official language of the subject species of the Jilectan Autonomy, and laced with the heavy accent of Shallock. Alan was lifted like a sack of meal and tossed over a broad shoulder. For a moment, the world faded out. When it returned, the viceregal patrolman was striding across the sand, Alan held effortlessly over the man's shoulder.
"Dalik!" he gasped.
There was no answer. The patrolman swung him into his arms, lifted him and dropped him through a dark, narrow opening.
He hit hard but rolled with the impact, coming to rest against the warmth of another body. There was a grunt of pain.
He lay still, his head swimming with the shock. A body landed heavily beside him, jarring the surface upon which he lay. His ribs throbbed. Another body followed, and then another.
Somebody near him groaned and he heard horrified speech in the native tongue. More bodies were being dumped through the opening. A heel caught him on the neck and he rolled away, feeling something warm trickle down his chin.
He must have passed out for he came painfully awake again, suddenly aware of movement. He was being jostled from side to side, and slowly it dawned on him that he was in some sort of ground vehicle, and that the bumping and swaying was caused by the sand dunes. He lifted his head with an effort that wrung a groan from him. "Dalik?"
The nearness of the reply startled him. "Yes, sir, I's right here."
Alan struggled to sit up. "Are you hurt?"
"No sir."
He gave up the attempt and lay still, his head throbbing. "Why have they done this? What do they want with us?"
Dalik's reply held genuine surprise at Alan's ignorance. "They wants us to work in the mines, of course, sir."
"Mines?"
"Yes sir. They needs slaves for the mines."
"Slaves? For *mine* work?"
"Yes sir."
It didn't make sense. Nobody used slaves for mine labor anymore. The Jilectans had precision machinery, far more efficient for such things. "Are you sure?"
"Yes sir."
"These are patrolmen? Viceregal patrolmen?"
"Of course, sir."
Dalik must be wrong, Alan thought. Slaves made no sense at all. Still, all the young men of the tribe had been taken by the Patrol for some reason.
He wished his extrasensory equipment was working better. Alan lay still, his mind whirling in circles. The vehicle jolted violently, throwing him hard against another body and he groaned at the pain in his ribs.
"Dalik?"
"Yes sir?"
Something was dripping off his chin. "Where are you?"
An arm nudged him. "I's right beside you, sir."
He was the body that Alan had been thrown against. Fuzzily, Alan tried to focus his telekinetic power. "Listen, Dalik, I'm going to try to get you loose."
Dalik's voice held sudden hope. "You can untie me with your magic, sir?"
"I don't know," Alan said. "I'm going to try. Turn around so your hands are against mine."
Dalik obediently squirmed around and Alan did likewise, positioning themselves back to back. He closed his eyes against the darkness, trying to envision the knots. Even his clairvoyance seemed difficult to use at present, and, except for empathy, it was the most automatic of all his talents. The image wavered unsteadily in his mind.
Then, abruptly, he saw them, sharp and clear. He could see the loops around the slim, brown wrists, the knots tight and unyielding, and far out of reach of his straining fingers. Alan concentrated.
A knot jerked and loosened. He heard Dalik's astonished gasp but ignored it, striving to keep the image clearly focused in his mind's eye. The ropes were moving, seemingly of their own accord, unwinding as he strained at them. Sweat trickled down his face, dripping off his chin.
And suddenly, the ropes were lying in a tangled coil on the floor. Dalik sat up and caught Alan's shoulders, pulling him upright. "Sir, I's free!"
Alan scarcely heard him. He slumped forward against the native, his ears humming. Dalik lowered him gently to the floor again and rolled him over, his fingers tugging at the cords on Alan's wrists.
The vehicle stopped.
Alan's heart jerked and consciousness came back with a jolt of adrenaline.
"Dalik!" he whispered. "There's no time! Get the ropes off your feet! Hurry!"
Dalik obeyed without question. Alan heard him muttering savagely under his breath as he knelt with the knots binding his ankles.
There was a clang and the doors started to swing open. A dim shaft of starlight filtered through. Alan rolled over to look at Dalik.
To all appearances, the young native was still bound tightly. He sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Alan, his hands behind him, the ropes looped around his ankles. Then he smiled and his lips formed the words, "Thank you, sir."
"Good luck," Alan whispered.
A man clambered through the opening. Alan swallowed, lowering his face to the floor. A hand grasped him by the hair, pulling him roughly to his feet. He was bundled through the opening like so much merchandise. Other hands received him and passed him to another man. He was tucked under an arm and carried ignominiously toward a building. He caught a glimpse of pale metal walls, a low roof and swinging metal doors that opened outward at their approach. The patrolman passed through and dropped him to the floor.
He lay still, fighting back pain and despair. Darkness closed down for a moment, shutting out the dim lighting on the roof above. Bodies were dumped unceremoniously around him.
Alan rolled over on his stomach, lifting his head. Dalik was nowhere to be seen and, except for the moaning captives around him, the room was empty. As he watched, a patrolman came through the doors, dropped a native beside Alan and went out again.
There was a shout outside the building and the sound of a blow. Someone gave an anguished yell of pain. A stunbolt hummed, followed seconds later by the crack of a blaster set to kill. Alan craned his neck, trying to see through the partially opened door.
"Dammit! That bloody little twerp! *Get him!*"
There was the pound of boots and another blaster shot. Someone swore with great imagination, but the sounds of pursuit faded quickly into the distance. A moment later, two patrolmen entered the room supporting a third between them, one hand to his mouth. They eased the injured man to the floor and removed his helmet. He lowered his hand, revealing a cut lip and a broken tooth. The officer dabbed at his mouth and swore.
"Who's the incompetent idiot that tied that one? I want his name!"
There was a chorus of denials. Alan kept his face down, a smile tugging at the corners of his battered mouth. Good for Dalik!
Two more patrolmen entered, breathing hard. "He got past the guards. Little squirt's fast on his feet. Sorry, sir."
"Sorry, hell! Get out there and track that little weasel! Take the truck! I want him! I'm going to tack his hide to my wall! Damn!"
Alan looked toward the doors and then, out of the corner of his eye at the control panel on the wall beside him. Two patrolmen turned toward the entrance. Alan concentrated. There was a minute click and the doors swung shut in the faces of the men.
There was a duet of curses and one of them reached over to the control panel. He hit the button and the doors swung obediently open. Alan reached out once more and a finger of mental energy tapped the button labeled "close". The doors swung shut, slamming the foremost patrolman in the face.
The man favored the door with a colorful description of its parentage. Alan closed his eyes, trying to see the internal mechanism of the control panel in his mind. He was sweating and his stomach felt queasy. There it was. If only --
He selected a wire and jerked. His head spun and he lowered his forehead to the floor, fighting back nausea.
The patrolman still kneeling beside the injured officer rose to his feet.
"Get outta the way, you fool." He pushed the second man, who was trying the button again, to the side and tapped it. Nothing happened.
"Use the manual, you numbskull!" the officer snarled.
The patrolman, a sergeant, by the markings on his helmet, pushed the manual control. The doors grated ponderously open and the patrolmen charged through.
Alan lay still. The floor felt cool to his sweating face and for several seconds the world faded out of his awareness. He was dimly conscious of more bodies being dumped down beside him.
He was jerked suddenly to his feet and the ropes were struck from his ankles and wrists. A hand grabbed him roughly by the arm and led him, reeling, down a corridor. He staggered, half-falling against the man who held him, only to receive a cuff across the ear that knocked him to the floor.
"On your feet, scum!"
Alan looked up. Through a blur, he saw a patrolman looming over him, the sleek, silver helmet adorned on one side with a thin, black slash. The sergeant.
The man planted a foot in his side. "Get up!"
Alan pushed himself to his hands and knees. The sergeant bent and yanked him to his feet, giving him a shove forward. Alan fell again, giving a half-strangled cry as the impact jarred his ribs. The sergeant placed a hand on his belt, unhooking a small device.
Another patrolman stepped forward and grasped Alan by the arm, pulling him to his feet. "Man, this one really got messed up!"
"M'heart's bleedin'," the sergeant grunted. He strode back down the corridor without a second look.
Alan looked blurrily up into the face of his rescuer. The visored face was unreadable behind the dark visor, but the silver dome also bore the black stripe of a sergeant. The man steered him down the corridor after the other slaves. A door stood open at the end of the passageway, two more patrolmen stationed before it. Alan was shoved into a dim, filthy room.
He sank slowly to the floor, rubbing his aching wrists. The room was crowded with dirty, disheveled beings. He couldn't see them well in the dim light but they were of all races. He identified many Terrans, an Arcturian, three of the tall, spare Cetans, two of the vaguely owl-like Procyons, dozens of the natives, and a few whose species he couldn't identify. Some of the slaves were sleeping, some watching the entrance as the newcomers were pushed in. Behind him, the doors clanged shut.
The place stank. Alan lay still a moment, one hand to his ribs, and then sat up. A Terran was sitting beside him, leaning back against the wall, his eyes wide open. He was bearded and filthy like all the others, though his dark skin didn't show the dirt as obviously. His wiry hair and beard were gray with the dust that seemed to coat everything. His eyes met Alan's in the gloom.
"Hi," Alan said.
The man's eyes widened in surprise. "You're a Terran!"
"Yes."
"You look like a native in this light. I thought that was a local raid."
"It was."
"How the devil didja get mixed up with that bunch?"
Alan rubbed his face. His hands came away red. "To tell you the truth," he replied, "I'm not sure. Where are we?"
"Slave pens, o' course. You ain't been to the mines yet, huh?"
"No," Alan said. He hesitated. "Are they really using slave labor for mine work?"
The other man grunted. "We ain't here for a tea party," he said. "Yeah, they are."
"Since when has the Patrol started using slaves in mines?"
The man shrugged. "I can't figure it out either. I gave it up weeks ago."
Alan was silent for several minutes, digesting that. "What are they mining?" he asked, finally.
"Some damn crystal thing. Don't look like much. I found one a while back an' I can't see why they're goin' to all this trouble for 'em."
"What do they look like?" Alan asked, after a moment.
The man wiggled, trying to settle his shoulders in a more comfortable position. "They'll show you one before they send you in so you'll know what to look for. Looks just like a chunk o' quartz."
"But why do they want them?"
"Beats me." The man scratched his beard. "Watch out for 'em, though. Damned things are fragile. You bust one an' they'll beat the livin' hell outta you just for fun. These 'trols are a bunch o' real trenchcrawlers -- 'specially that unprintable Sergeant Edgebastion."
The name rang a bell. "Edgebastion? Which one is he?"
"Big good-lookin' fella with a black stripe on his helmet. I know that 'cause he's got a habit o' takin' his helmet off before he beats you up. Don't want nothin' t'take the edge off his fun, I guess." The man leaned forward suddenly, examining Alan's face. "Holy hell! You're a mess! Didja pick that up in the raid?"
"Some of it," Alan said, truthfully. "Before that I was in a little accident."
"Looks like it, all right. By the way, my name's Lamont Hedgecock. Call me Monty."
"How do you do," Alan said.
"Lousy. What's your name?"
Alan sighed. "Alan," he said. "Alan Woodruff." He paused, remembering the last time he had used that name. He had been with Mark. Desolation washed over him as the realization came that he would never see Mark again. The memory of that blood-splashed blond hair flashed before his eyes and he fought back tears.
Monty was watching him. "What's the matter?" He grimaced. "Man, that's a dumb question! What *ain't* the matter? Look, kid, you better try'n get some rest. Once you get in the mine, you're gonna need it. We can't do nothin' t'help each other, so don't expect help, an' don't try'n help nobody else. I did once, an' ol' Edgebastion gave me somethin' to remember him by." He gingerly touched a half-healed cut under one eye. "Shouldn't be long now. They work us eight an' let us sleep eight. It's a helluva schedule, 'specially with the gourmet meals they serve here. You could be lucky, though, an' draw the north mine," he added encouragingly. "The east mine's the worst o' the two. That's Edgebastion's little pond."
"Thanks," Alan said.
Monty lay back, closing his eyes. "By the way, kid, what kind of accident was it?"
"I think it was a spaceship wreck," Alan said. "At least I woke up in it. I don't really remember. I don't even know what planet I'm on."
Monty began to snore.
**********
tbc
