The Mines of Kuloghi: 2/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
III
"Mark!" Julia Austell leaped to her feet and ran around the table to where Linley lay sprawled on the carpet, dropping to her knees beside him. "Mark! Are you all right?"
Other persons crowded around them. Kaley pushed his way through and went to one knee beside Linley's crumpled form.
"Captain?"
Linley didn't reply. Kaley frowned, turning quickly to the youth beside him. "He's fainted. Call Dr. Philips, Eric. Hurry."
"Don't move him!" It was a young, blond woman who had appeared beside Julia. She bent over Linley, feeling his pulse. Julia watched anxiously.
"What's wrong with him, Lorie?"
The nurse frowned and knelt beside the unconscious man. Gently, she pried open his eyelids and examined the pupils of his eyes. "I don't know," she said at last. "Did he hit his head?"
"No," Leroy Burke said. "I'm sure he didn't. Could it be the heat?"
Linley groaned, lifting one hand to his forehead.
"He's coming to," Lorie said. "Mark?"
Linley groaned again, trying to heave himself up on his hands.
"Lie still, Mark," Julia said.
Linley got his elbows under him and flopped over onto his back. He blinked, staring blearily up into the anxious faces above him. "W'appened?" he inquired, thickly.
"That's what we'd like to know," Kaley said. "Lie still, Captain. Doctor Philips will be here in a minute."
"What the devil?" Linley looked confused. "What am I doin' on the floor?"
"You passed out," Lorie said.
He closed his eyes. "Where's Alan? Is he all right?"
Someone handed Julia a damp handkerchief and she began to sponge Linley's face with it. Kaley was frowning at him in concern.
"Alan? He's on Kuloghi by now, Mark. You know that."
"What's the matter with him, Lorie?" Julia asked.
"I don't know." Lorie Evans shook her head. "It almost seems like retrograde amnesia, but --"
"What's that?"
"Temporary loss of memory," Lorie said. "A person can't remember things that happened for as much as a day or so before the accident, and it rarely lasts more than a couple of days at the most. It's pretty common after a blow to the head."
"But he didn't hit his head!" Julia said. "Mark, what's wrong with you?"
Linley didn't answer. He was staring up at her, his forehead puckered in a puzzled frown.
Doctor Philips entered the room. He was a small, dark-haired man with light-brown eyes. The crowd made way for him as he hurried over to the group on the floor and knelt beside Linley, glancing at Lorie. "What happened?"
"He passed out, sir. It was only for a minute, but now he seems a little confused."
"Did he hit his head?"
"No," Burke said.
Philips took a small penlight from his pocket and flashed it into Linley's eyes. "How do you feel, Mark?"
"Like hell," Linley said. "Oh, my achin' head!"
"Well," Julia said, somewhat relieved, "at least he's sounding like himself again."
"Who am I, Mark?" the doctor asked.
Linley squinted at him for a moment, grimacing and rubbing his head. "You're Matt Philips."
"Do you know what day this is?"
"Uh --" Linley scowled in concentration.
Philips frowned. "Do you know where you are?"
"Huh?" Linley stared at him and then turned his head. "This is the conference room at the base."
"Do you remember why you're here?"
Linley looked at him a moment and then shook his head.
"What's the matter with him?" Julia wailed.
Philips scratched his chin thoughtfully and checked Linley's reflexes. "Where does your head hurt, Mark?"
"Here." Mark touched his forehead and then shifted his position and gave a surprised grunt of pain.
"Problem?"
"Feels like somebody's stabbin' me in the ribs."
Philips glanced at Lorie, who reached over to unbutton the shirt for him. The doctor examined the spot. "I don't see anything. Your head seems okay, too." He helped his patient to sit up. Linley rubbed his head, still looking dazed. Philips chewed his lip thoughtfully.
"He had that food poisoning we all had," Burke said helpfully. "Could that have anything to do with it?"
"I doubt it." Philips glanced around at the assembled crowd. "Does anyone here remember what happened just before he collapsed?"
There was a sudden silence.
"He jumped up and ran for the door," Julia said.
"Did he say anything?"
"He said 'Alan, watch out," Burke quoted.
Again, silence. Linley shook his head. "Alan's in trouble," he said suddenly. "There's been an accident."
"Now wait a minute," Kaley said. "Thirty light years is a long way for a telepathic communication."
"He's in trouble," Linley said. He got unsteadily to his feet.
Kaley looked at the doctor. "Is it possible?"
"Well --" Philips appeared worried. "Ordinarily, I'd say no. It's never been done before, but Alan's surprised us in the past and his link with Mark has always been something out of the ordinary. Besides, I can't find anything physically wrong with Mark, but he's exhibiting all the classical symptoms of the Corsican syndrome."
"The who?" Kaley asked. "What's that?"
"Corsican syndrome," Philips repeated. "It's a term derived from the story of the Corsican twins. When one was hurt, the other felt the pain. Up until now, it has shown up only between strongly linked psychics, but considering Alan's link with Mark, it does make sense."
"But what *is* it?"
"It occurs between individuals with an exceptionally strong telepathic or empathic bond," Philips said. "One member of the pair is injured and the other suffers the same symptoms to a lesser degree."
"Sir," Linley said, desperately, "Alan's in trouble. I gotta go after him right now."
The doctor frowned. "Give me permission to read your mind, Mark. I may be able to straighten this all out."
Linley stiffened. "Cut it out."
"Let him, Mark," Kaley said. "That's an order."
"We're wastin' time." Linley stepped back. "Alan's in trouble. I'm okay now, General, and I know what happened."
"Well?"
"I saw Alan's face." Linley rubbed his forehead. "He was good and scared. I heard him yell my name and there was this feelin' o' somethin' comin' at me. Hit me, too. That's all I remember. Alan musta got hit with somethin'. I gotta go find him, right now!"
Philips was watching him. "Has this happened before?"
"Huh?" Linley appeared surprised. "Yeah, sure. All the time. Whenever he gets scared, he links with me. Eerie sorta feelin'. I've never been kayoed like this before, though, even when he got hit with a stunner. This time he musta really got clobbered. I sure hope he ain't --" Linley broke off abruptly. "General, I gotta get goin'. He must be hurt bad."
"I'm going too," Julia said, quickly.
"Like hell," Linley said. "You're stayin' here."
"Yes *sir*, Strike Commander Linley, *sir*!" Julia snapped. "I'm not one of your patrolmen!" She turned to Kaley. "Please, General?"
"I'd like to go, too," Eric Vogleman said.
"So would I," someone else said.
Abruptly, the room was full of volunteers. Kaley raised a hand and the voices died. He looked at Linley again. "Do you have any idea as to the nature of the accident, Captain?"
Linley frowned. "Lotsa crashes and bangin' around. A wreck, maybe -- it sorta felt like one. They coulda got shot down. I gotta get goin'."
"I know, and you're the logical one to go after him, because of your link and your rather peculiar qualifications." Kaley smiled wryly. "But I don't know about you, Lieutenant Austell."
"Please, General!" Julia pleaded. "Alan's my friend! He saved my life!"
"We're all Alan's friends, Lieutenant," the General said, rather dryly.
The statement, Julia thought, was perfectly true. Alan was one of those people who was liked wherever he went: the natural consequence of his empathic power, she supposed, and it was a standing joke that the boy could talk almost anyone into practically anything. Even the hard-nosed viceregal patrolmen, the mercenaries that worked for the Jilectan Viceroy, weren't immune. Linley, himself, was an example of that.
"Please, General?" she said again, giving him her most charming smile. "I won't take any chances; I promise."
"All right," Kaley said. "I know you have a somewhat more personal feeling about him because of the business on Riskell, and you have a lot of common sense. Be sure Captain Linley stays out of trouble."
"I don't want her along," Linley growled. "She'll just get in my way."
"Quit lying, Mark," Leroy Burke said, grinning slightly.
"An' you quit readin' my mind!" Linley snapped.
"Can't help it," Burke said, obviously amused. "You're thinking too loud. Better put what shielding you've got up before every psychic on the base hears you."
"What was he thinking, Lee?" Julia inquired, interested.
Leroy Burke laughed.
"None o' your business!" Linley was red. "Okay, baby, you can go, but I'm in charge: understand?"
"Yes, *sir*!" Julia said.
IV
Alan Westover opened his eyes. His first awareness was of a pounding headache. His eyes refused to focus and he felt nauseated. He blinked, trying to see.
Gradually, the images resolved themselves somewhat. He was still seeing double, but at least he could see. He was hanging upside down in his safety webbing, and the position did nothing for his headache. With fingers that refused to obey, he managed to unfasten the webbing and let himself down onto the bulkhead that had become the deck. The effort exhausted him. He sank down to rest his swimming head in his hands.
He came back to consciousness once more some time later. His headache was still with him and still intense enough to make him acutely ill. Alan groaned, grasping at his ribs and trying not to breathe too deeply. His vision remained poor, the images sliding back and forth between double and triple. Slowly, he got to his hands and knees beginning to ease his way toward the control room, only a few meters away. It took him several minutes to negotiate the distance. He peered in, blinking and trying to focus his eyes.
There were two men in there, or there had been. Alan looked away, feeling sick. Nausea washed over him and he took a deep breath. Pain jabbed him in the ribs.
Something was running into his eyes and he put up a hand to wipe it off. His fingers came away red and sticky. Blood. There had been an accident of some sort, but he had no memory of it. He wiped away more blood and lifted his head, forcing himself to look into the control room once more.
Blond hair, splashed with blood. Alan felt a flood of sorrow and sobs rose in his throat. Mark. Mark always went with him when they were sent on assignments. They were a team. Not Mark. Please, not Mark ...
He crawled painfully forward, slipping in blood, and slumped to the deck beside the body. He reached out a shaking hand and touched blond curls. The face was unrecognizable, but the hair --
It was Mark. It had to be.
"Mark!" He began to sob hopelessly, resting his aching head on the deck beside the dead man.
He must have passed out again, for when he opened his eyes some time later he was aware that a good deal of time had passed. The pool of blood was drying and his forehead stuck to the deck when he moved. Slowly, he turned his wrist to look at his chronometer.
The chronometer wasn't there. It must have been broken and torn from his wrist during the accident. Alan pushed himself to hands and knees, looking once more toward his friend. Tears blurred his vision and his throat ached at the sight of the blood-caked hair. He reached out one last time to touch his partner's shoulder and then turned away, beginning to crawl toward the control room door.
He reached the passenger compartment again and crept slowly toward the airlock, breathing painfully. His eyes were focusing better but the headache remained, the blood beating like drums in his ears. It took him the better part of an hour to reach the lock and once there he paused, feeling ill again. The manual control to open the doors was above him but he had no strength left to reach it. He sagged forward, retching.
When the spasms ceased he was trembling and bathed in cold sweat. Black dots jumped before his eyes and he rolled to his back, feeling knives stab him in the ribs again. Consciousness slid away.
He awoke again sometime later, realizing that he was thirsty. The cabin was hot, making his throbbing head ache all the more. Very carefully, he rolled once more to his hands and knees and reached for the manual control that opened the lock.
The doors slid sluggishly apart. A blast of hot air hit him, stinging his various facial abrasions with hot sand and making his eyes blur anew. The airlock tilted suddenly. He lurched sideways and sank slowly forward, resting his spinning head in his hands.
The vertigo subsided after a while. Careful not to move suddenly, Alan lifted his head and peered out.
Sand. Sand everywhere. The sun lay on the horizon, staining the rolling dunes a faint rose pink, but it was still almost unbearably hot. Alan could see nothing but sand and more sand, no matter where he looked.
He perched on the edge of the lock and looked around. How was he ever going to get down? The ship was upside down, so extending the boarding ramp would serve no purpose. Alan contemplated the three-meter drop to the sand without enthusiasm. Whatever he did, it was likely to hurt. His throbbing ribs underlined that probability.
But the difficulty was resolved for him.
Alan opened his eyes. There was sand beneath him and the air was warm and still. The ship loomed above him, a dark silhouette, and after a moment he realized that he must have fainted again and fallen from the airlock. Only the faintest trace of light remained and overhead the sky was blossoming with stars.
He lay still, piecing together all that he could remember of what had happened. His last memories were of Lavirra, and Mark. After that, nothing until his awakening in the wrecked ship. But this was not Lavirra. What was the matter with him? Where was he?
Alan knew fear. He was alone and lost on an alien world. His two companions were dead. Almost unbearable grief rose within him and he turned over, burying his face in his hands and sobbing Linley's name hopelessly.
He awoke to realize he was cold and turned over, shivering. Above him, the sky blazed with stars. There was a constellation almost directly overhead that seemed very familiar. Yes, that was the Devil's Pitchfork. It placed him somewhere within sixty light years of Lavirra's sun. But where? Again, panic shook him. Where was he? What had happened? Why couldn't he remember?
The night wind brushed his face and Alan put up a hand, discovering a large, painful lump on the hairline above his right eye. There was dried blood encrusting his face and his hair above the injury was clotted together. He huddled down in the sand, seeking warmth. After a time, he drifted off to sleep once more.
**********
Mark Linley sat at the controls of the scout ship, his eyes fixed on the black viewscreen before him. They had been in hyperspace for over an hour and Julia was drowsing in the seat beside him, her blond head nodding. Linley, however, was wide-awake, his mind seething with anxiety for his partner. That must have been a bad accident. He hoped fervently that the boy was still alive. The instruments on the control panel blurred suddenly and he wiped a hand hard across his eyes. Damn it! What if the kid was dead? The thought was almost too much to bear. Well, by God, if he was, whoever was responsible was going to pay! Linley clenched his jaw. He'd be damn sure they paid!
He jerked suddenly and sat bolt upright, his hands going involuntarily to his head. Julia stirred and turned to look at him but he didn't notice.
He was alone and he hurt. His head throbbed blindingly and every breath sent sharp stabs of pain through him. Fear and loneliness filled him, draining his strength, and over it all there was grief -- overpowering grief.
"Alan!" he whispered.
"Mark!" It was Alan's voice, sobbing his name.
The contact faded and he clutched at it, flinching from the pain but striving to hold on. "Alan! Can you hear me, kid? I'm comin'!"
The contact broke. He was back in the pilot's chair of the rescue ship and Julia's hand was on his arm, her voice breathless with relief. "He's alive! Thank God, he's alive!"
Linley nodded. "Yeah, he's alive, all right, but he's hurtin' bad and he's scared stiff. How much longer?"
Julia frowned at her chronometer. "Just under sixteen hours."
Linley swore under his breath in frustration and closed his eyes, trying to send his partner the knowledge over their link that help was on the way. He knew it was hopeless, but he had to try. For some reason that he could not fathom, Alan was more terrified than Linley had ever known him to be in the history of their partnership. With every nerve screaming for him to hurry, Mark sat still and counted off the dragging minutes.
***********
tbc
