For anyone wishing a background on the setting for this story, go here: http://www.lcficmbs.com/ubb/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=4;t=000002
and read the introduction. That should give you all the information you need.
Nan
Rainy Season
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright statement: 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.
I
The small, nondescript aircar settled into the parking space half a block from a dimly-lighted café. The driver, a large, blond Terran, cut the engines and sighed, stretching his long legs as far as the cramped legroom permitted. Beside him another Terran, this one with dusky curls and a short, compact frame, glanced at the chronometer on his wrist.
"Twenty-two hundred hours. Man, I'm starved."
"Me, too." Mark Linley flashed him a grin, his teeth gleaming whitely in the darkness. "Well, our chores are done. Let's go get some chow."
"I thought you'd never suggest it." Alan Westover peered out the window. It was pouring. Rain blurred the plastic, but through the soggy darkness, he could read the flashing sign that read "Millie's Eat Shoppe". Across the street, another sign announced the "Strike 'Em Out Bowling Alley".
It sounded more like a baseball field, he thought, but then, this was Shallock. His large partner, a native of the planet, had never heard of baseball before Alan had mentioned it to him.
They got out of the car, locking it behind them, and opened their umbrellas. The rain was coming down by the bucketful and had been ever since their arrival in Scaifen, Shallock's capital city, two days ago. The weather report had informed them that the storm, which had been going on for six days, was expected to last another week, and that flood warnings were in effect for the low-lying areas.
They hurried through the downpour to Millie's Eat Shoppe. Mark pushed open the awkward, unpowered door, letting his partner precede him, and they paused in the entryway, lowering their umbrellas and shaking water from their cloaks.
Millie's Eat Shoppe was typical of most Shallockian culinary establishments intended for the lower species. This section of town had once been inhabited by middle class Jilectans, and traces of their occupancy still remained in the shabby and worn furnishings. Reddish candles were placed in the chipped and cracked wall holders that still showed lines of grace and delicacy, in spite of their state of disrepair. Both wall hangings and rug had faded to a nondescript grey, with only shadows of their original designs visible, if one looked very closely. The tapestries were worn and tattered, the carpet scuffed and threadbare from the tread of many feet over the years. Small, battered tables stood about, and on all sides were curtained booths, their curtains as threadbare as the carpet. A heavy smell of grease and exotic spices overhung the room and all was obscured by a thick haze of blue smoke that rendered the already dim lighting all the more inadequate. Alan wrinkled his nose, although Mark appeared to notice nothing.
An Arcturian waiter appeared through the gloom. "Dinner for two, ssir?"
"Right," Linley said.
"Ziss way." The alien led them down one of the aisles. Alan noted a strong odor of joy dust emanating from one of the curtained booths, and was relieved when their guide passed it, to seat them in a corner some distance away. He dropped menus on the table and departed. Linley raised an eyebrow.
"Sorta tacky lookin' place. Wonder if the food's any good."
The curtains of the booth might as well not exist, Alan thought. Obviously Shallockian weaver moths had been busy, for thousands of tiny holes had turned the cloth into a rather coarse mesh. As he watched, the curtains of a booth across the room billowed outward and a man staggered through, to slump gradually to the floor. He lay on the carpet, snoring loudly, until a pair of muscular Terrans appeared, to drag him away. Alan swallowed his stomach.
Linley hadn't noticed. He was studying the menu. "Hmm. Wonder if the marshhopper's edible?"
Alan stared, fascinated, as a long, snakelike thing with purple scales and uncounted legs, wrapped itself around the Arcturian waiter's ankle as he placed food on a table set in the center of the room. The alien reached down absently to remove the creature, and dropped it negligently into a trash receptacle. There was an alarmed squeak and a small, furred creature appeared at the edge of the container, scrambling out. A snaky coil whipped suddenly around it, dragging it it back. The container vibrated for a moment and was still.
"Whatcha think, kid?" Mark asked.
"Huh?" Alan dragged his attention back to his partner. "Oh, the marshhopper? It's probably the best bet in a place like this."
"Yeah." Linley closed his menu and tossed it to the table. Alan did likewise.
"You got that info safe?" Linley inquired.
Alan patted his jacket. "All secure."
"Good." Mark glanced up as the waiter reappeared. "We'll have two marshhopper specials an' a couple o' Sepo brandies."
"Yess, ssir." The alien collected the menus and departed once more.
A cockroach crawled across the table and Mark brushed the insect casually aside. He leaned back in his seat, stretching out his feet and resting his hands behind his head. From the booth's small, grime-encrusted window, they could see the flashing sign of the bowling alley through the rain. Alan squinted through the cracked pane, noting that the gutters of the streets, swollen with water, were filled with floating garbage. At least, the city would be considerably cleaner after the storm.
"Gosh," he remarked, "I've never seen a storm like this -- even on Shallock."
"I have, but not too often." Mark glanced out the window and made a face.
"Do you suppose it'll flood like the predictions say?"
"Could be. It started out sorta like this when Kev an' me got caught in that flood -- the one that separated us. Neither one of us thought it'd be as bad as it was."
Alan had heard the story before and nodded. "Kids never figure anything can happen to them."
"Yeah." Linley grinned ruefully. "I never figured that I'd be licked by a lot of water. We laughed at the warnin's and an' ran naked through the sewers, an' thought it was great fun when the water swept us away."
"Gosh," Alan said.
The waiter set their drinks before them and moved away. Linley picked up his glass, sipping thoughtfully. "Yeah, it was a helluva way to live, but we never thought about it that way. All our friends were in the same boat, after all. It was just the way things were."
Alan nodded, regarding his own drink thoughtfully. After a moment, he wiped the brim with his shirtsleeve and took a cautious sip. After all, he reasoned, the alcohol would probably kill anything dangerous in it. Besides, he was vaccinated against mostly everything.
He hoped.
Movement caught his eye. Two small figures appeared through the rain, heading for the bowling alley. He watched them idly, relaxing back in the seat. It felt good to sit in here with his friend and partner. Their task was completed for the moment, no problems, no worries ... at least until they reached the base, again.
The Arcturian waiter set their food before them and departed once more.
Mark took a bite of marshhopper and made a face. "Yuk! I always thought it was impossible to ruin a Shallockian marshhopper. What the devil'd they do to it?"
Alan frowned, also taking a cautious bite. The delicate flavor of marshhopper was smothered in another strong, very familiar flavor. "Good grief! They put garlic in it!"
"Garlic!" Linley cussed under his breath. "What a way to treat good food! Where's that damned waiter? I'm sendin' this slop back!"
"He went into the kitchen ..." Alan turned his head at the sound of a siren. "Hey, look! Something's going on at the bowling alley!"
Mark also turned to look. As he did so, police poured from the aircar that had drawn up before the establishment, the flashing green light atop the vehicle lending a sickly cast to the scene. A blaster cracked, the light electrically blue in the dimness.
The doors of the café banged open and two figures catapulted through. They glanced frantically around, then ran across the room. Behind them, the doors crashed inward and helmeted police charged through.
Of one accord, Mark and Alan ducked under the table. From somewhere there was a scream, followed by the humming of stunbolts.
The two fugitives were just passing the table. One fell, rolling, to the carpet, within half a meter of Alan's hand. There was a shrill squeak as some small denizen of the café fled, scampering across his leg. The other boy paused, irresolute. More stunbolts. He ducked and there was the crack of a blaster set to kill. One man screamed and fell sideways. The fugitive fired another shot, spun and bolted out the emergency exit. The remaining police thundered after him.
Suddenly all was still, except for the officer on the floor, moaning and cursing by turns. Several other of the café's customers were also under their respective tables, but the Arcturian waiter knelt beside the injured man, speaking calmly and soothingly.
Something cold and clammy slid across Alan's ankle. He brushed it away absently, his attention suddenly riveted on the figure sprawled face down on the tattered carpet.
The boy was young, no more than ten Terran years, but what had caught Alan's attention was the strong psychic aura emanating from his unconscious mind.
They didn't have much time if they were to do anything about it, though. The Scaifen police might return at any minute.
He glanced cautiously around, his empathic sense scanning like radar. A cold, slimy tentacle slipped across his ankle but he barely noticed, intent on what he was doing.
They were not observed. The hour was quite late, the small café sparsely occupied by a smattering of humans and non-humans. The Arcturian waiter's attention was on the wounded officer. The flickering candlelight, only marginally adequate before, was now less so, for the sudden draft from the door had blown out nearly half the candles. The odor-filled gloom shrouded them about with a miasma of hot wax, spices, drug vapors and smoke. One or two couples were hastily departing; not even waiting to finish their dinner. A drunk snored, face on the tabletop, in a shadowed corner. Only an occasional flicker of lightning through the dirty windows gave any illumination to the room.
Alan leaned out, grasping the boy by the outstretched arm, and dragged him across the rug, through the curtains and into their own place of refuge.
"What the blazes are you doin'?" Mark whispered, sounding startled.
"He's a psychic," Alan replied, softly. He was squirming about, regaining his seat on the bench, beginning to haul the boy after him. "We've got to hide him before the cops get back."
"A psychic!" Linley said something under his breath. "This could get us in a lot o' trouble ..." He crawled back onto the bench as he spoke, reached down and caught the fugitive by his collar, hauling him onto the seat. Alan dipped a soiled napkin into his water glass and wiped dirt and blood from the boy's face. Linley reached into a back pocket, dragging out his comb, and hastily yanked it through the tangled, brown hair.
"Here, kid, put your jacket on him." He seized his brandy glass, slopping it across the rescued's chest and tattered jeans, then arranged him face down on the table, his head pillowed on his arms.
The wail of a siren drew Alan's attention. An ambulance drew up in the street outside, and a moment later a pair of white-coated attendants entered, an antigrav stretcher floating along beside them. Together, they lifted the injured officer to the litter.
The emergency exit opened again and two uniformed figures appeared, supporting a third between them. The injured man was cursing in a steady stream and Alan could see that he was hopping on one foot, the other held off the ground. One of the attendants turned toward him.
"You hurt, officer?" he inquired.
The man swore violently. "I fell over a bloody bedspring somebody dumped in the alley behind this place. Kid got away, too!" He added another four-letter expletive.
"Better siddown an' lemme look at it ..."
"Nah, I'm okay. We gotta get that other kid down to the station ..." The words dwindled off as he stared in consternation at the spot where the boy had lain. "Hey! He's gone!"
One of the other officers cussed unimaginatively. "I was sure I hit him! Halthzor's hangnails, I musta just brushed him!"
"Either that or the cell was low. These stun settin's are gettin' worse all the time. Lousy, cheap things! I tellya, Charlie, it's better t'set for kill. I've had this happen twice in the last month." He glared at the Arcturian waiter who had just straightened up, wiping his taloned hands across his dirty apron. "Hey you! Fish-face! Didja see where that guy went?"
The alien's cold, yellow eyes met those of the officer without expression. "I did not, ssir."
The hurt man scowled, turning on Mark and Alan. "Did you see him take off?"
Alan nodded. "Right after you ran out the back. He got up and went after you."
"An' you didn't try'n stop him?"
"He had a blaster," Alan informed the man, frostily. "No. We didn't try to stop him."
The officer swore again. "How's Rick?" he asked the attendant.
"Shoulder burn, sir. Painful, but it ain't serious. He'll be all right."
"Good. Confounded stunners ..."
The three officers departed a few moments later, still cursing the blasters, the fugitive and the rain, impartially.
Alan drained his brandy glass, glancing with apparent indifference around the nearly empty café. "We'd better get out, Mark."
Linley glowered at his nearly untouched plate of marshhopper. "I'll pay the tab. You better get our little friend to the car."
"Okay." Alan looked up guiltily as the Arcturian waiter appeared beside their table. Slitted, yellow eyes moved over him, then over the figure of the boy beside him. The youngster moaned softly.
"We'd like the check, please," Mark said, quickly.
Pointed fangs gleamed in a hair-raising smile. "Of coursse, ssir." The alien placed a slip of paper on the table. "I trusst you enshoyed your meal."
"Tell your cook he shouldn't oughtta put garlic on marshhopper," Mark said, gravely. "Ruins the taste." He placed credit slips on the tray, added a generous tip and met the eyes of the waiter, blandly. The Arcturian scooped it up in a green-scaled hand and again his gaze passed over the boy.
"Your young companion appearss to have had too much to drink."
"Yeah," Mark said. "Kid's got a drinkin' problem."
Alan rose and boosted their prize to his feet, clamping an arm around him. He wondered what the Arcturian would do. The natives of Ceregon were psychic-sensitive, he knew. They could unerringly detect an unshielded psychic. The ability was unknown, as far as he knew, to the Jilectans and was due, he had been told, to the existence of a predator on the Arcturian home world in past times which used psychic senses to capture its prey. The predator was long extinct, but the Arcturian detection system lived on.
He guided the boy out of the booth. Behind him, he saw Mark place more money on the table.
The boy was beginning to recover from the stunbolt, retching faintly as Alan guided his wavering steps toward the door. Mark appeared beside him, gripping the boy's other arm and ushering him through the exit. The door closed smartly behind them.
Linley opened his umbrella, holding it over them all as they made their way to the aircar. Alan loaded his miserable burden inside and climbed in beside him. The boy was retching and sobbing by turns. Alan supported his shoulders and held a motion-sickness bag for him while Linley got behind the controls. A moment later, the car soared upward into the storm.
**********
Slowly, the boy's retching ceased and he lowered his face onto his knees, still sobbing slightly.
Linley glanced quizzically at him. "Why were the cops after you, kid?"
Slowly, the boy straightened up, moving with caution. He looked at Mark, then Alan, and lunged for the door, his hand darting for the emergency override, which was the only way to open the car door in flight.
Alan grabbed his hands, but the child displayed a lithe strength, twisting away, one hand reaching for the sagging pocket of his trousers.
Linley reached over matter-of-factly and caught one arm, bringing it behind him in a Patrol armlock. The youngster cursed vividly, trying to twist free. Mark tightened the lock, and the boy yipped.
"Cool down, kid," Linley said, calmly. "I gotcher switchblade, an' you can't jump out of an aircar that's flyin' thirty meters above the ground, so settle down. We ain't gonna hurtcha."
The boy glared at Alan. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded. "Cops?"
"No," Alan said. "And we're not taking you to them, either."
"Whatcha want me for?" their captive demanded, a trace of indignation coloring his desperation. He twisted his head to look at Mark. "Ouch! Lemme go!"
"Not unless you're gonna behave," Mark said, firmly. "We saved you from the cops but we can hand you back to 'em any time we feel like it, so you just cool off an' talk respectful."
The boy stopped struggling, glaring at Alan again. "Okay," he said, sullenly. "I won't try nothin'."
Linley looked at Alan, one eyebrow raised interrogatively.
Alan answered with an amused shake of the head. "He's going to try for the door again as soon as you let go."
"I am not!" The boy's face showed outrage. "I know when I'm licked, an -- ouch!"
"You quit lyin' to us, sonny," Mark said, ominously. "My buddy over there'll know it every time you do."
The boy was looking scared and a little awed, now. He looked at Mark, then back at Alan and gulped suddenly. "Lemme go ... please. I won't try'n get away. I promise."
"Let him go, Mark," Alan said.
Linley released him. "Okay. Now, kid, what's your name?"
Alan already knew, but it was wiser and more diplomatic not to tell the boy so.
Their captive gulped again. "Stan. Stan Eckland. What happened to m'brother? Did the cops get him?"
"No," Mark said. "He got away. How old are you, Stan?"
Stan appeared to relax slightly. "Fourteen. Listen, are you sure he got away?"
"Yes," Alan said. "We heard one of the men say so." He frowned at the information he was now picking up from the boy's mind. "Your brother's pretty important to you, isn't he? What's his name?"
"Matt," Stan said. "He's m'twin brother. We're identical. Even mom couldn't tell us apart, sometimes."
"Identical, huh?" Both of Linley's brows rose this time and Alan knew what he was thinking. If the boys were identical twins and this one was a psychic, then his brother was, too. And chances were very good that the two were psychic partners as well. They had certainly acted that way.
The boy glanced from Alan to Linley, frowning in puzzlement. "Who are you guys? Whattaya want from me?"
"We're askin' the questions, kid," Mark said. "An' right now, we wanna know all about you. Start with your mom. What's her name?"
The boy was watching him, his expression sullen again. "Mom's dead -- least I think she is. The 'trols showed up at our place -- maybe two months ago -- an' took her away. We ain't seen her since. Me an' Matt been stealin' ever since t' feed our kid sister, Brenda, an' ourselves." He shrugged. "We were doin' okay, too -- better'n Mom ever did in *her* business ..." He frowned, darkly. "I dunno what they wanted her for. They just took her away."
Alan looked at Mark again, and Linley raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yeah."
Linley continued the questions, bringing out bits of information that might take Alan hours to dig out of the boy's memories alone, but the questions produced associations, other thoughts that told him all he needed to know.
"Been doin' pretty good in your new job, huh, kid?" Linley asked, finally.
"Yeah." Stan nodded in answer to Linley's bland question. "We gotta eat an' pay the rent, y'know -- an' our landlord don't care where the money comes from." He lowered his gaze to his lap, wetting his lips. "Listen, if you guys want money, I got some -- nearly a hundred credits -- right here. Take it an' lemme go, okay? I ain't done nothin' to you."
Alan smiled, and Mark chuckled. "Easy, kid. We ain't gonna rob you or nothin' like that. You got what you need, buddy?"
Alan nodded. "Yes. He's okay."
"Good. Listen, Stan, we gotta proposition for you. Alan'll tellya all about it."
Stan Eckland looked back at Alan, still puzzled. Alan hesitated and then plunged ahead.
"Stan, have you ever wondered why the Patrol grabbed your mom?"
Blue eyes snapped up, bright with anger. "Yeah, o' course I have! She hadn't done nothin'! She was a bargirl."
"She was a psychic," Alan said, "and so are you."
The boy went stark white. "I ain't! That's crazy!"
"I spotted you while you were lying on the floor beside our table," Alan said, quietly. "You're a psychic, and your mother probably was, too. Somebody spotted her and turned her in for the reward. It all fits."
Stan shook his head vigorously. "I ain't, I tellya!"
"Yes, you are," Alan said, soberly. "You see, I'm a psychic, too." He turned on the car's dome light. The boy was staring at him. "Look at my face. You've probably seen it on Jil wanted posters."
The boy's eyes widened. "Naw," he said, after several seconds, "you can't be him. You ain't old enough."
Alan smiled. "I'm older than I look, just like you." He nodded at Mark. "Recognize him?"
Stan's head swiveled around and he stared at Mark. Linley flashed him the same white grin that his posters had made famous throughout the Sector.
Stan gulped and his gaze went back to Alan. "Are you sure?" he asked, weakly. "Are you really sure I'm a psychic? I ain't ever done nothin' that incredible, y'know."
"Stan," Alan said. "I'm sure."
The boy slumped back against the seat, looking sick. "Oh, man, what am I gonna do now?"
"Well," Alan said, carefully, "you have a choice. We can let you go and you can try to make it on your own until the Jils catch you, or you can join the Underground like we did, after Mark deserted the Patrol to save my life. It's up to you."
**********
tbc
