Wild Card: 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VIII
The small, slender figure of Woodrow Peeks was standing before a desk and behind the desk was a blond man of medium height, with a plain, nondescript face. The latter rose quickly to his feet as they entered, moved two steps from the desk and dropped to one knee. The Jilectan approached him, moving with an odd, limping gait that Alan had not noticed before.
Wendlemere had lowered his gaze to the plush carpet before him. "M'lord Linthvar! I was not expecting you, sir!"
Linthvar! Alan surveyed the Jilectan with more interest. He had met Linthvar once before -- from a distance. In fact, Alan suspected strongly that he, himself, was the author of that limp. Cornered by the alien and a squad of the Patrol, he had thrown an overloaded blaster at them and Linthvar had been caught in the explosion.
"You may rise, Wendlemere." The Jilectan gestured impatiently.
Wendlemere got to his feet, his eyes still downcast. "May I serve you, M'lord?"
The Jilectan gestured disdainfully at Alan. "This patron of your casino has become aware of my presence. You will dispose of him in such a way as to raise no questions."
"Yes, M'lord." Wendlemere glanced briefly at Alan.
Linthvar's gaze rested on the clerk. "This is Woodrow Peeks?"
"Yes, M'lord."
The clerk took a step back from the alien and went to his knees. "M'lord, please, I ..."
Linthvar ignored the faint plea. "Dispose of him, as well. When we are alone, I wish to speak of other matters."
"*What*?" Peeks demanded, in a horrified tone. He got clumsily to his feet. "Let me go, M'lord, please! You can forget the money; I don't want it! Please, let me go -- I'll never say a word! I promise!"
One of the security guards spoke into his wrist communicator and started toward the clerk. Peeks looked wildly around then gave a bound that carried him completely over the approaching guard. He landed before the door, stumbling a little, and jammed his thumb on the opening button.
The panel slid aside, revealing two more security men. They seized Peeks by the arms and dragged him, writhing and protesting, into the corridor without. Alan was propelled along behind him and the door slid shut as they exited.
Ahead, the corridor branched and the guards holding Peeks turned left, still dragging the struggling clerk between them. Peeks was rapidly succumbing to hysteria, screaming for help and struggling wildly. Ahead, a door in the corridor opened and a man peered out. He took in the scene, and his face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The door closed smartly.
That was only to be expected, Alan knew. As Mark had said, muggers and holdup men were discouraged by the Luna City gambling places, and if caught, were summarily disposed of while the city government turned a blind eye. Neither he nor Peeks could expect any help from either police or patrons.
Alan was shouting silently for Mark. How long had it been since the Jilectan had appeared? The link must have formed then, and Mark would have known instantly that he was in trouble. Three minutes? Four? Surely, he should be here by now! He hoped desperately that his partner would hurry. These men didn't look like the squeamish type, and he doubted very strongly that they would fool around.
Ahead, the corridor forked again and the guards holding Peeks started to turn right. The clerk voiced a sudden, unearthly shriek and twisted from the grasp of the man on his left. The guard grabbed for him again but Peeks fought like a maniac, screaming, kicking and striking wildly at his captors. His panicky strength overpowered even the burly guards and the one on the left lost his hold again, stumbling back with a curse. Blood trickled from a cut lip.
One of the guards holding Alan spoke to the other. "Hold onto him."
The guard addressed twisted Alan's right arm up behind him, and the psychic bit back a yelp of pain. The first guard went briskly toward the struggling clerk. Peeks voiced another deafening scream and behind Alan another door opened.
"What the hell's going on?" a voice demanded.
Alan's guard jerked around, his grip loosening slightly, and Alan twisted suddenly, employing a technique that Mark had taught him. His knee came up and, to his astonishment, he was suddenly free. His guard doubled forward with a strangled grunt and collapsed. The other guards spun.
Alan's psychic reflexes were excellent and it was only that which saved him. The fallen guard's blaster leaped from its holster to smack solidly into his hands and he brought the weapon up. One of Peeks guards made a grab for his own blaster, while the other two gaped in amazement. Alan's weapon cracked, the sound almost ear-shattering in the enclosed space, and the guard who had tried for his blaster spun away with a shriek, clutching his arm. Vaguely, Alan sensed his distress but there was no time for him to consider it. Instantly, he was covering the other guards and he took a deep breath, gripping the blaster butt with both hands. "On your faces! Move!"
He must have sounded like he meant it for both men dropped flat, their arms stretched above their heads. Alan flipped the indicator to stun and fired twice, then stunned the wounded man as well. The guard he had incapacitated was still curled on the floor, retching. Alan fired a fourth time.
Peeks was staring at him, frozen. "Who *are* you?" he squeaked.
"Holy space!" It was the hotel patron who had intruded a moment before. The man had thrown himself flat when the blaster fire commenced, but was now getting to his feet. Alan ignored him, grabbing Peeks by the arm.
"Let's go!"
"Hey!" The patron raised his voice in a shout. "Help! Police!"
Alan swung the blaster toward him and the man ducked back into his room.
From not far away he heard shouts and the pound of approaching feet. Grasping Woody Peeks by the arm, Alan ran headlong down an intersecting corridor. Peeks went with him, unresisting. A few seconds later it became apparent that his instincts had guided him right, for the door to the fire escape loomed in the wall facing them and Alan jerked it open.
Dropping the guard's blaster in favor of using both his hands, he started to descend. "This way! Quick!"
Again, Peeks obeyed at once, descending the steep ladder-like steps clumsily. The sun had dipped beneath the lunar horizon, Alan saw, but the stars overhead were all but invisible, due to the brilliant floodlights illuminating the landscape.
Peeks was slow -- maddeningly slow! Alan restrained the impulse to shout at him to hurry. He knew the man was doing his best and that reaction was making him clumsy but it was hard to be patient, knowing that the alarm must already be spreading.
His feet touched the pavement at last and he grabbed Peeks' elbow again. A shout sounded somewhere to his right, followed instantly by the crack of a blaster. The beam struck the wall above him. Uniformed figures were pouring from a side door of the casino. Alan spun about. "This way!" He sprinted for the street.
His steps carried him meters at a time and the clerk stayed beside him, moving more nimbly now. Across the street, Alan could see the thick greenery of one of Luna City's many parks.
A blaster spat again, striking close to his foot. Without further consideration, Alan plunged forward, crossing the street in two bounds. Another shot sounded, and heat seared his left arm. He had a vision of Woodrow Peeks bolting away through the bushes as he staggered into the underbrush, clutching his seared arm. The pound of feet behind him sent him lunging recklessly forward.
Where the dickens was Mark? If he *ever* needed help, he needed it now! Alan crashed desperately through a hedge, leaving a ragged hole in the carefully manicured shrubbery, and burst onto a flat greensward, trailing bits of vine and twigs. Several persons were picnicking on the other side and someone shouted a protest as he charged across the cloth, upsetting a bowl of what appeared to be potato salad in his passage. More bushes loomed on his right and he dived into them, hearing shrieks and curses behind him as the security guards plowed through the picnickers. Then, the bushes were around him. He ran on, hearing the shouted orders as the guards spread out, searching.
A man appeared to his rear. Alan yanked his own blaster from beneath the light jacket he wore and fired. The stun beam hummed and the man dropped.
A second guard was behind the first, sprinting toward him. Alan fired again, missing completely. His pursuer fired, too, and another stunbeam hummed.
An electrical tingle brushed him, sending him stumbling forward to hands and knees. He tried to twist around as he fell, bringing up his blaster. He failed.
IX
Mark Linley glanced jovially across the table at his remaining opponent. All other players had folded and a crowd had gathered around the table, watching the play with interest.
The other player, a blue-feathered Procyon noblewoman, met his gaze, her own round, dark eyes completely unreadable. The alien placed three chips on the table and pushed a large stack over beside them. Mark grinned good-naturedly at the alien and matched her bid with a stack of his own. "Raise you five, T'Flin."
The Procyon's head feathers lifted slightly and drooped. She stared at her cards, chirping softly for a few moments, then voiced a despairing cluck.
"I fold, shir," she said, placing her cards face up on the table. She had, Mark saw, a very neat flush, king high. He grinned again, beginning to rake in his newly won chips.
"Excushe me, shir." The alien's voice held a touch of asperity. "What ish your hand, pleashe?"
"Oh." Linley tossed his pair of fours to the table. There was a concentrated sigh from the spectators and the Procyon gazed at the cards in absolute silence. Mark raked in his winnings and took a hearty swallow from his glass.
The Procyon rose to her feet with great dignity. "I bid you good efening, shir," she said and turned away. The dealer began to gather up the cards.
Alan's face appeared suddenly before him and in his mind he heard the boy shout his name. The sudden jolt of alarm was so intense that Linley had to stifle an exclamation.
The dealer began to pass out the cards again. Linley stood up, trying to conceal his haste, and began to stuff his winnings into his pocket.
"Deal me out, pal," he said. "I'm gonna get some air."
There was a chorus of protests from the assembled players, but he hardly noticed. Alan shouted his name a second time, and now he felt pressure on his arms, as if someone was gripping them with brutal strength.
A fat, little man stepped in his way, his round, pink face set in angry lines. "Listen, mister, you can't just walk away -- not after cleaning us out like that!"
Mark glared at him. "I can do anythin' I damn well please, twerp. Get outta my way!"
The man favored Mark with an unflattering, very ripe description of his supposed profession. He was drunk, Linley realized abstractedly, and doing his best to pick a fight. Alan's voice yelled his name again and Mark reached out, trying to shove the little man aside.
A plump fist swung, almost clipping him. Linley caught the arm, automatically bringing it around and in an instant, the little man was immobilized in a Patrol armlock. He struggled uselessly, cursing with great imagination and trying to kick Mark in the shins.
Two casino security guards materialized from nowhere. "What's going on?" one of them demanded.
Mark shoved the little man toward him. "Here, take this character, willya? He's itchin' for a fight, an' I ain't in the mood."
The guard apparently recognized who he was supposed to be.
"Strike Commander Russell? I'm very sorry, sir. Here, Mike, help me with this guy ..."
The two men led the still-struggling patron away. Linley turned and headed for the stairs, shouldering his way roughly through the mob. Voices spoke in the background of his mind and Alan called his name again, pleading with him to hurry. The link tightened almost painfully.
He went up the stairs four at a time. A hallway stretched out before him and he could sense Alan, much nearer now. He turned left and ran. Pain shot up his right arm. Clearly, through the link, he heard Alan's yelp.
Ahead, a door opened and Linley crashed headlong into a tall, elderly lady. They went down in a tangle of clothing and the woman shrieked, striking him across the face with the small bag that she was clutching. It hurt. She struck him a second time, across the cheekbone, and the catch gave, scattering the contents of the bag in all directions. Some kind of fragrant beauty liquid sloshed across his front, smearing his hands, arms, chest and chin. From somewhere, not very far away, came muted shouts, and then the unmistakable crack of a blaster set to kill.
The woman froze at the sound, her eyes widening. Mark managed to untangle himself and scrambled to his feet, voicing a breathless apology. Ahead of him, someone shouted for help and an instant later a door closed sharply.
He rounded a corner, still running, and saw a long hallway before him. Mark ran forward, swiping absently at his chin, from which beauty liquid dripped, and vaulted the bodies of four, unconscious security guards without pausing. Another hallway crossed the main one, and he saw a fire escape at the end of it. The link told him that that was the way Alan had gone and he turned down it, still running, and within seconds was wrenching at the door.
It opened easily beneath his hands. He stepped out onto a flight of steep steps. His hands, greasy with the spilled face cream, slipped on the railing as he descended. Beneath him, he saw two figures running across the brightly illuminated street. Security guards charged after them.
A blaster cracked. Through the link, he felt heat scorch his left arm, then the figures had vanished into the concealing shrubbery of Luna City's Crescent Park. Swearing furiously, Mark half-fell down the remainder of the steps, bruising his shin painfully on the final rung. The last of the security guards were just vanishing through the hedge in pursuit of the fugitives, and Linley charged after him.
He crashed recklessly through the tattered bushes, landing awkwardly in the midst of what appeared to be a picnic. His foot came down in a bowl of soft, white material that squashed beneath his boot. He skidded ungracefully forward, regained his balance with difficulty and ran on. There was an outraged scream behind him, and a wedge of watermelon whizzed past his ear. Something soft and rubbery struck him between the shoulder blades, but he didn't glance back.
There were shouts ahead of him. Mark followed the silent mental call through another hedge of bushes, trying now to be as quiet as possible. He could hear the searchers' voices everywhere, and he wasn't going to help Alan by getting himself caught.
Alan's mental voice shouted his name again, and he felt the numbing tingle of a stunbolt. His partner must only have been brushed by the beam, however, for the link remained. Linley drew his blaster and moved stealthily forward. The tingle washed over him again, but this time Alan's consciousness did not remain. The link was abruptly gone.
Gripping the blaster in one hand, he slipped as silently as he could between two bushes. For all his attempt to be quiet, however, the rustling of the branches must have given him away, for as he emerged from the bushes, a security guard bending over his unconscious partner spun toward him, his blaster lifting.
Linley fired before the man completed his turn. The stunbeam hummed, and the guard plunged to the ground face first on top of Alan.
Linley moved forward quickly and heaved the man away. The guard's nose and mouth dripped blood where he had struck the decorative rock border of a flowerbed and Mark absently wiped the blood from his hand on the other man's shirt. Scooping up his partner, he glanced quickly around and doubled back through the underbrush, tracing a rapid, zigzag course through the park, never leaving the concealment of the luxuriant foliage.
A man emerged through a gap in the hedge ahead of him, his head turned to look over his shoulder, as if speaking to someone behind him. Linley ducked back into the bushes and retreated hastily. The man was not clad as a security guard, but Linley could not afford witnesses at this point, and no reliance whatsoever could be placed in the hope that a passerby would not remember a tall, flashily-clad man carrying a blood-spattered body through the shrubbery of the park.
At last, he found what he sought: a small, secluded area, surrounded on three sides by a high hedge, screened on the fourth side by the tall growth of Coralan fanflowers. A tiny brook ran past, gurgling pleasantly over the artistically placed stones.
Mark settled quietly in the midst of the vegetation and waited while the sounds of the search diminished, and finally disappeared entirely.
X
Slowly, Alan became aware of pain. His head throbbed unbearably. The agony spread to his eyes and into his neck and shoulders. Waves of nausea engulfed him.
"Alan?" The voice penetrated through the misery. "Wake up."
It was Mark's voice. He wanted to obey, but at the moment his body simply refused to do so.
"Alan? C'mon, kid, open your eyes."
Alan tried. Someone was groaning, and gradually, he realized it was himself. He pressed his lips tightly together and moans stopped.
"Take it easy," Mark's voice said. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."
"I'm dying." Alan turned his head to the side and the movement intensified the pain. The nausea was getting rapidly worse and he gagged slightly.
"Go ahead," Mark said. "You'll feel better when it's over."
Alan took his advice. Linley held his shoulders, saying nothing, then wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. The smell of the cloth almost turned his stomach again. He gagged.
"What *is* that?"
"Huh? It's my handkerchief."
"It stinks!" Alan groaned and lay back again.
"Oops! I forgot. It's got some kinda perfumery all over it."
"Perfumery? I thought you were ..." He had to pause for breath. "... Playing cards."
"I was." Linley grinned slightly. "I'll explain later. Look, we gotta get back to the hotel. Can you make it?"
"I guess so." Alan pushed himself carefully up, trying not to move suddenly and Linley gave him a hand to his feet. "I feel terrible! What happened?"
"That guard hit you with a stunner. Joggles your nervous system up a bit, and you feel like hell for ten or fifteen minutes after you wake up. You'll be okay in a little while. Can't be soon enough for me."
"Huh?" Alan looked sharply at his partner, and then had to close his eyes for a moment at the pain that shot through his head.
"Careful," Linley said. "I ain't feelin' so good, either, and when you do that, it's worse."
Linley did look a little green, he saw, when he opened his eyes. "Oh gosh, Mark! The link! I'm sorry!"
"That's okay," his partner said. "It ain't as bad for me as for you, but let's say I've had more pleasant experiences."
"I'll bet." Alan rubbed his face, feeling again the stickiness of his skin. Linley slipped a hand under his elbow.
"Take it slow, but try'n be kinda quiet. The guards are still lookin' for us."
Memory came back with a jolt. "Mark! Woody ..."
"Shh! He's long gone, an' there ain't no way we're gonna find him now -- 'specially with those guys hangin' around. C'mon."
They crept through the shrubbery, trying to be as silent as possible. After a while, they began to hear sounds ahead of them, disgruntled voices and snatches of conversation.
"Oh, gosh," Alan said. "That must be the picnickers whose potato salad I upset. Maybe I ought to apologize."
"Potato salad?" Mark paused and bent down to examine the sole of his boot. "You better not."
"Huh? Why not?"
"I stepped in it. Let's just go around them as quiet as we can. If we try to apologize, they'll probably lynch us."
Alan smothered a laugh. Linley grinned down at him and Alan experienced a shock.
"Mark! You've got blood on your neck! Were you hurt?" He surveyed the hand, which held his arm. "Good grief! You've got blood all over you!"
"Yeah, but it ain't mine," Linley said. "It belongs to the guy that caught you."
"Oh," Alan said. He reached up, wiping a driblet of red from Linley's hair. "Since when do casino security guards bleed ketchup?"
"Huh?"
"Mustard, too," Alan said. "And pickle relish."
"Kid, are you feelin' all right?"
"Smell it." Alan extended his reddened palm.
Mark did. "Oh!" he said, in a tone of sudden realization.
"What?"
"The picnickers threw a piece of watermelon at me -- missed, though -- an' somethin' else hit me on the back. It bounced, whatever it was."
"Must've been a hotdog or a hamburger. You've got stuff all over your back. That cape will never be the same."
"That's okay," Linley said, "I ain't all that crazy about it. Look; here's a car. Let's head back to the hotel."
"Mark, this isn't our car ..."
Linley opened the door, pushing him inside. "Hey! The keys are in it! We'll drop it off at the hotel. Don't worry; we'll just borrow it for a little while ..."
**********
(tbc)
