Wild Card
Copyright statement, Nov. 18, 2003: This is an original work by the authors. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
This is another of the Terran Underground series. It is a story that occurs in the early months of the partnership of Mark Linley and Alan Westover, while they are still becoming the smoothly functioning Psychic Team shown later in the series.
Wild Card: 1/?
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
The war between the Jilectan Autonomy and the Terran Confederation, otherwise known as the Psychic Conflict, was the inevitable result of the situation existing between the two stellar nations. Until their encounter with the Terrans, the Jilectans, a race of large, humanoid psychics, had never found another intelligent species with psychic power of its own. The Terrans, up until then a minor race of beings originating from the stellar system of Sol, were to gain sudden galactic importance.
Like all other inferior -- that is, non-Jilectan -- species, they were marked for subjugation and enslavement by the Jilectan Autonomy, but the plans of the would-be conquerors went awry from the first.
Terra boasted a unique folklore containing wizards and witches, fortune tellers and dealers in the occult -- a fact that should have warned the Jilectans at once of their danger, but the psychic species had never before encountered a psychic rival; the warning went unheeded. The existence of Terran psychics was not discovered for three-quarters of a Terran century, during which time the Autonomy went methodically about its plans for conquest.
A prolific species, they needed habitable planets for their exploding population; wars that destroyed promising worlds were avoided whenever possible. Humans, and other intelligent species in the Sector, were gradually incorporated into the large class of beings that served the psychic masters.
The discovery of Terran psychics in the latter half of the 22nd Century marked a new chapter in the covert relations between the Autonomy and the Confederation, which at the time spanned ten solar systems. The instant reaction of the Jilectans was a desperate attempt to exterminate their psychic rivals, an attempt doomed from the start for reasons discussed later in this chapter. The response of the Confederation was the Psychic Breeding Program ...
Unable to openly defy the Jilectans, Terra had taken another form of resistance.
Terran Military Intelligence, under the brilliant Admiral Michael Weaver, Terran Space Corps, Ret., invented a resistance movement called the Terran Underground. The agents of this movement were technically outlaws and were blamed for every act of Terran defiance, thus protecting their government from retribution. Some Terrans were resistant to the telepathic powers of the Jilectans and Terran Intelligence employed such persons to infiltrate the Jilectan organization. Finally, one agent was able to steal information on Jilectan psychic training methods, enabling ordinary Terrans to learn the techniques of mind-shielding. Bases were set up on three remote worlds and persons showing the slightest signs of paranormal abilities were collected and sent to these refuges to live in safety and to multiply, while training and refining their psychic talents.
While the Jilectans tried diligently to eliminate their psychic competition, Teams of Terran psychics were employed as spies, gathering vital information for future use. Alliances were forged between Terra and other star-faring species who faced similar fates at the hands of the Autonomy. This covert war continued for nearly three decades, culminating at last in the Terran Revolt of 2204 which expelled the Jilectans from the Terran Sector and established the Federation of Free Planets which exists today ...*
*Excerpted from "The Psychic Conflict: A Motivational Analysis" by Stannar, PhD, Dept. of Galactic History, University of Ceregon, 2276.
**********
I
Phil Connors was relaxing in front of the videoscreen in the back room of Finnian's Imports where his family lived, when the videophone buzzed softly. He glanced at it and switched off the screen which at the moment was advertising Synthicola, guaranteed to taste exactly like the leading brand, but without the calories, caffeine, or sugar. Phil had tasted it and the commercial did not impress him.
The videophone buzzed again. "Phone on," he said.
The screen remained blank, indicating that the caller had switched off the screen at his end. "Hello, this is Max. Has my weekly order arrived yet? It usually comes in on Thursday."
Phil straightened up, instantly alert. "This is Phil," he responded affably. "Our Thursday order hasn't been unpacked yet. It only arrived ten minutes ago." He snapped a switch beneath the unit. "Secure."
The screen came to life and the face of a middle-aged man in casual civilian clothing appeared in it. "Hi, Phil."
"Hello, sir," Connors said. "What's up?"
The Admiral leaned forward. "Phil, I've got a problem and I need a psychic Team. How quick can you get me one?"
Connors leaned forward. "Any specific talents needed?"
"Clairvoyance, telepathy -- a tracer, if you have one available."
Connors frowned. "Westover and Linley are the only Team on Terra right now, sir -- except for the Gilberts, and of course neither of them is a telepath."
The officer went silent a moment. "Linley isn't a psychic. Kaley's calling them a Team though, huh?"
Connors nodded. "It isn't your standard psychic pairing, sir, but they're unquestionably linked. Westover transmits to Linley and Linley receives, although he can't transmit, himself. And Westover taps Linley's mind for power. That's definitely established. We don't know how he does it and neither does he, because the link is unconscious and involuntary, but it makes him the best psychic we've ever found."
"That's interesting." The Admiral appeared to consider for a moment. "They're still pretty inexperienced."
"Westover is," Connors agreed. "But Linley has a good deal of experience in tight situations, as you know."
"That's true." The Admiral smiled fractionally. "I've had the occasion to read his Patrol records. Very capable man." He was silent again.
Phil waited a moment. "I *can* get you another Team from Shallock, but it'll take about twenty hours ..."
"We don't have time to waste. What talents does Westover have?"
"All the common ones, sir, and a few uncommon ones. Unusually wide range, as a matter of fact. Telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, telekinesis, and he's an excellent tracer."
"Empathy?" the Admiral asked.
"Yes, unfortunately."
"Too bad. I might have hoped for a psychic with a hard heart on this assignment but I guess that would be too much to ask. It could get a little ticklish, since it appears to involve a fellow Terran."
"You mean somebody's been selling us out?" Connors asked. "Who?"
"We aren't sure of anything, yet," the Admiral replied. "Here's the situation ..."
**********
II
"Okay, kid," Mark Linley said. "Steady the blaster in both hands and sight through the crosshairs ... no, don't drop your chin. It throws your aim off. That's right. Now, squeeze the trigger; don't jerk it."
Alan Westover bit his lower lip, obviously trying to concentrate on all the instructions at once, and aimed carefully at the target that Linley had set up for him -- a beer bottle that someone had discarded in the ditch behind them.
The field was empty, except for the white fence and white farmhouse in the distance. A chilly wind blew and a light dusting of snow covered the brittle grass. Somewhere, a dog barked.
Alan squeezed the trigger gently and the needle beam spat, shriveling grass several centimeters to the right of his target. There was an angry hiss and snow vanished into steam.
"Darn!" The boy stared disgustedly at his marksmanship. "I don't think I'm *ever* going to get the hang of this, Mark! I haven't improved one bit!"
"Take it easy." Mark slapped him comfortingly on one shoulder. "It just takes practice. Try again. Don't worry if your hand moves around a little ..."
Alan tried again and the needle beam hissed to the left of the bottle, this time. Alan said something under his breath.
Linley grinned. "Temper, temper. I didn't learn in a few weeks, either. Try once more, then we'll take a break. Cup o' coffee sounds good, don't it?" He blew on his fingers.
"Sure does." Alan lifted the blaster once more, aiming with care, and squeezed the trigger. The bottle spun sideways two meters and came to rest in the dirt. Linley trotted forward and picked it up. A small pinhole pierced the glass in two places, and he grinned triumphantly at his partner.
"Good shot! You're gettin' better."
"If you say so." Alan grinned ruefully. "Let's quit while we're ahead, huh? I'm about frozen."
"Me, too. Nice cup o' coffee in front o' the fireplace'll fix that, though."
Alan replaced the blaster in his shoulder holster and sealed the jacket. They turned toward the farmhouse, shoes crunching on the frozen ground. Snow began to whirl through the air around them.
As they entered the yard, a large, black, nondescript mongrel ran forward to greet them, his fringed tail wagging joyfully. Alan scratched the creature's neck. "Hi, Wolf, old boy."
The dog groaned ecstatically as Alan's fingers moved down his spine, locating unerringly the spots which the grateful animal was unable to reach for himself. Linley opened the door to the house.
"C'mon, kid, I'm freezin'. Move it, Wolf."
Wolf bolted through the door and Alan followed, pulling off his cap and brushing snow away.
"Wipe your feet!" Maria Gilbert turned from the stove as they entered. Alan and Mark meekly obeyed the order and Linley gave her his most winning smile.
"Could Alan an' me get a cup o' coffee, ma'am? We're about froze solid."
"I should think so!" Maria was the wife of George Gilbert, C.O. of the Houston station. She was a pretty woman with a good deal of Mexican ancestry and bore the rank of major. Like all psychics, she was noticeably short. Her talents were rather unusual, in that they included clairvoyance, empathy and the ability to start fires, but nothing else. Her severe expression relaxed into a smile as she took in Alan's red, chapped face.
"I saw you out there. You're doing very well, Alan."
Considering that Maria held several local awards for pistol marksmanship, this was no mean praise. Alan's face lit up. "Thanks, Maria."
She had turned back to the stove, picking up two cups of coffee. "I thought you'd be wanting these when you came in. Here you are, Mark -- black, right? And yours with cream and sugar, Alan. Wolf!" She didn't turn her head toward the sitting room. "Get off the sofa!"
There was a click of claws on the wooden floor in the next room. Mark laughed. "Man, I'm glad I ain't one o' the pets around here!"
"What makes you think you aren't?" Maria cocked an eyebrow at him. "Everyone who enters this house must mind his manners. Get along, you two! Go take off those wet shoes and warm up before you catch your death!"
"That's just a superstition, Maria!" Alan protested. "Cold doesn't make people sick; germs do."
Maria paid no attention, chivvying them into the living room. Wolf rolled a guilty eye at her, and Mark laughed at the animal's expression.
"Poor guy! I know just how he feels." He set down his coffee cup and removed the heavy jacket he wore, hanging it on the rack by the entrance. Alan did the same, then dropped onto the sofa by the fire, beginning to remove his shoes. Mark sank into an easy chair, taking a careful sip of his coffee.
"Mark!" Maria's warning voice came from the kitchen.
"Okay, okay." Linley removed his shoes and presented his feet to the fire. "Ah! That does feel good."
George Gilbert appeared in the door to the den. "Mark, call for you on the phone."
"Damn!" Mark gulped down the last of his coffee. "Oops, sorry, Maria." He and Alan had learned quickly that Maria Gilbert could be expected to hear if Linley swore. In the three days they had been here, Mark had done so only four times -- something of a record for him.
Linley went into the den and over to the videophone on the desk. Instantly, he recognized the thin, freckled face framed by the screen. "Hi, Phil! What's up?"
Phil Connors had apparently been speaking to someone else, for he turned back at once, smiling. "Hello, Mark. How's Alan?"
"Fine."
"Good. Listen, I got a call from the boss and it looks like we're going to need you. There's a problem ..."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Looks bad, too."
Mark lifted an eyebrow. Apparently the nature of said problem prevented Phil from discussing the details over the phone. "Okay, Pop, we'll be there as quick as we can."
"See you." The screen went blank on the word.
Linley strode back into the sitting room. Alan still lounged by the fire, Wolf's head resting on his knee. He was scratching the dog's ears absently, speaking to George Gilbert. They both looked around as Linley entered.
"What's up?" he inquired. "George says that was Phil."
"Yeah." Linley was interrupted as Steve Gilbert, one of the couple's four sons, came clomping into the room. He pulled off his brightly knitted snowcap and grinned at Alan.
"Hi, Alan! Gosh, how lucky can you get?"
"Lucky?" Alan said, blankly.
"Yeah. *I've* never visited Luna City and if Mom gets her way, I never will."
"Luna City?" Alan's voice remained blank. "What do you mean?"
"You're going there soon. Maybe tomorrow."
"How do you know?" Mark asked.
Steve looked offended. "I *know*. I'm the best pre-cog around, Dad says."
"I thought Alan was," Linley said, glancing questioningly at George.
"He is." Gilbert grinned amiably. "But Steve is a long range pre-cog -- and a good one. If he says Alan's going to Luna City soon, he probably is."
"Told you so," Steve said.
George Gilbert frowned at the boy. "Careful, young man. You're speaking to an officer."
"What about me?" Mark asked, curiously. "Will I be goin' with him?"
Steve looked more offended. "I'm not a fortune teller ... *Mister* Linley."
Gilbert came to his feet. "Steven!"
The boy turned defiantly to his father. "Well, maybe he's an Undergrounder now, Dad, but he *was* a damn 'trol -- and after what the Patrol did to your own brother ..."
"Steven!" his father roared.
The boy fell silent, his expression sullen.
Gilbert began to speak to his son, his voice tightly controlled. "You will not use that tone with me or with any other officer in this organization, Cadet! Is that clearly understood?"
Steve didn't speak and Gilbert took a menacing step forward. "Well?"
"Sorry, Captain," the boy muttered.
Linley shrugged, uncomfortably. "That's okay, kid."
"We'll talk about this later," Gilbert said. "Go to your room, Cadet."
The boy went out, not looking at them. Gilbert sighed.
"Sorry, Mark. Thirteen is kind of a tough age for kids. I hope Steve comes through it okay. He's having a bad time of it."
Linley shrugged. "Don't worry about it, George. I *was* a 'trol, like he says, an' it ain't been that long. Kids are gonna remember it -- 'specially the psychic kids."
Gilbert shook his head. "Whatever you were, it doesn't matter, Captain, and Steve's going to have to learn that. You're not the first patrolman to defect, although you were the first Strike Commander. If we held that against you, we'd be fools. You're a psychic's partner now, and that's all that means anything."
"Sure." Linley dismissed the subject. It was embarrassing him. He turned to Alan. "Better get your gear, partner. We're headin' for Dublin."
Alan grabbed his shoes. "What's going on?"
"Dunno. Phil didn't explain, but it sounded like he was worried, an' he'd been talkin' to the big boss, himself."
"Gosh." Alan tied his shoes and stood up, looking absurdly youthful -- far too youthful to be an officer, Mark thought, not for the first time. He bent to slip on his own shoes. "Can you have a car brought around, George?"
Maria appeared from the kitchen. "Already waiting, Captain."
Five minutes later, they emerged from the house to find an aircar drawn up before the gate, the engine purring softly. One of Gilbert's "field hands" hopped nimbly out and saluted smartly. Linley returned the salute casually, grinning at the tall, gangly youth. "'Bye, Gerard. See you soon."
"Goodbye, Captain." The boy's expression was one of sheer hero worship. Odd, Linley thought, the contrast in attitude between this boy and young Steve. Age, he supposed. Steve was at the point in his life where white was white and black was black, with no intervening grey area. Gerard, on the other hand, was close to twenty, and had somehow learned to look at things with a more open mind.
Linley clapped him on the shoulder. "Take it easy, kid. Maria bosses me around, same as you. Tellya a secret." He dropped his voice a little. "She scares me silly."
Gerard flushed and laughed, stepping back. Linley got into the driver's seat and Gerard shut the door for him, then sprinted around to open the passenger door for Alan.
Alan got into the vehicle. "Thanks, Gerard. See you soon."
Gerard shut the door for him and Linley touched a control. The little craft rose smoothly from the ground. Linley turned it northeast, punching coordinates into the car's computer with his free hand.
"Man!" He leaned back in the seat and relaxed as the computer took over. "That poor kid! I think he was expectin' me to ride out on a white horse in full armor or somethin'. It's hell havin' a reputation like that. You don't wanna disappoint 'em."
Alan grinned. "Ah, the price of fame!"
Linley threw a punch at him, which Alan dodged with his usual dexterity. Mark scowled. "You know what I'm talkin' about, you smart-mouthed kid. Poor li'l guy was scared half to death of me."
Alan made a face at him. "Little! He's at least fifteen centimeters taller than me. Thanks a heap for the morale boost, pal!"
Linley grinned. "Sorry. Look, we got a while. Feel like drillin' me on English a bit?"
"Sure."
Linley's English could most generously be described as "halting", and he spoke it with a thick accent, unmistakably Shallockian -- understandable for anyone who had grown up speaking an alien tongue. Basic was not the language of the Jilectans; none but the overlords spoke that, but it was the tongue of the subject species in the Autonomy. The Underground was working furiously to decipher the actual Jilectan language, but so far, their success had been limited. What they knew was being taught to their operatives as fast as the men and women could absorb it.
For the next two hours, they conversed in laborious English as the small car sped toward the northeast, then Linley called a halt.
"Damn! What a lotta idiotic rules an' exceptions! English has gotta be the hardest language I ever tried to learn!"
"I know." Alan sounded sympathetic. "That's because it's got so many words and phrases from other languages in it. It's really kind of a polyglot of different languages."
"That's what Zach used t'tell me."
"Your valet? You never told me he spoke English."
"Sure." Zacchary Washington had been Mark's valet when he had been a Strike Commander. "Zach was sort of a linguist, himself. He spoke English with a Terran accent. Said his dad had come from Terra, which was why. He used to coach me, when I was just startin' to learn it. I really missed him after Markham took him away from me. That idiot, Patterson, could barely speak Basic, much less anythin' else."
Alan laughed. "Sounds like he wasn't the most successful valet. Makes me feel a little sorry for him."
"Yeah, me too -- a little. He tried awful hard, but he just couldn't seem to get the knack. I tried t'be nice to him, but he drove me crazy."
"Poor guy." Alan stretched. "But you sure have a talent for languages. I've never met anybody with such a good memory."
"Thanks." Linley felt pleased.
Night was falling and stars began to appear overhead. Alan leaned back in his seat. "No kidding. You'll be speaking English like a native in another few months -- if you can ever get rid of that Shallockian accent."
Linley made a face. "'Fraid I'm stuck with that for good," he remarked, only half-humorously. "I even speak Arcturian with a Shallockian accent."
Alan laughed.
**********
tbc
