The Mines of Kuloghi: 5/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VIII
"Sublight in ten seconds," Mark said.
There was a jolt and the stars reappeared. A planet drifted onto the screen.
"Scanning for ships," Julia said. "None in the vicinity."
"Okay," Linley said. "Keep your eyes skinned. I'm gonna make like a meteor."
The planet swelled beneath them. From this far away, Linley could see the swift rotation of the planet. Kuloghi's day, he knew, was considerably shorter than that of Shallock or of Lavirra -- slightly over 14.3 Terran hours from sunrise to sunrise. They passed a small moon, hardly more than a large asteroid. The scanners remained blank. Below them, a vast desert was growing on the screen, covering most of a continent. A thin whine began as they struck the atmosphere.
"Oh, m'Gawd," Linley muttered.
"What?"
Mark came to his feet with a gasp of panic. "Alan!"
Blazing lights - running away from those lights, shouts, confusion and terror --
Pain lancing through his ribcage. He gave a cry of anguish. "Alan!"
"Mark!" It was Julia. "What's happening?"
Sand beneath him, crushing agony in his chest. His arms yanked behind him --
Linley sat down again, gritting his teeth. "They've got him. We gotta find him fast."
"Patrol?" Julia asked.
Linley nodded, wincing. "Alan! Kid, can you hear me?"
"He can't hear you," Julia said.
"No!" Linley swore savagely. "This damned link of ours! He's the telepath, so he transmits. I just receive like a bloody one-way radio! I can't *do* a damned thing!"
"What's happening now?"
Linley grimaced. "Feels like he's got some busted ribs. Feels like somebody's stuck a pitchfork in my side." He rubbed his ribs. "He's tied up in the dark. Contact's fadin'."
"Can you guide me at all?" Julia asked. "Do you have any idea of his location?"
"He's passin' out, I think," Linley said.
"Mark!"
He reached past her, setting coordinates. "We're too far away. I can't be sure." He stopped. "Contact's broken."
They were silent a long moment, watching the approach of the planet in their viewscreen. Julia bit her lip. "It's a big planet," she said. "An awfully big planet."
IX
"On your feet, scum!"
Alan blinked sleepily. He was sore from head to foot and he felt as if someone had established a blacksmith shop in his skull. Somebody had him by the arm and was pulling him to his feet.
"Stand up, kiddo," Monty said. "Time to go."
Alan's eyes focused on the man. "Wha --"
"Move it, scum!"
Still blinking, Alan followed Monty toward the entrance. They were herded out of the slave pen and down a long passageway, Alan stumbling along in the rear of the crowd. Another mass of slaves passed them, their heads drooping wearily, going in the other direction.
The smooth walls of the building ended suddenly in a rocky wall and Alan realized that the station must be built directly adjacent to the mountain. There was a pair of metal doors set in it that slid upon at their approach.
Involuntarily Alan stopped and Monty grabbed his arm.
"Keep movin', kiddo, for God's sake. Don't draw attention to yourself."
A feeling was rising within him. At first it was nothing but a vague uneasiness but it grew quickly, beating like fire in his brain. There was something that he must remember about this planet. It was important, terribly important. There was something here and that was the reason they had sent him. Power, raw power, waiting within the rock to be unearthed and used.
His steps slowed again and Monty caught him by the arm, urging him forward. They entered a hot, narrow tunnel, covered with soft, powdery dust and illuminated by atomic-powered lamps placed high on the wall. Alan glanced covertly around and quickly lowered his face again. If the patrolmen recognized him his goose would be cooked. Alan Westover, criminal psychic and killer of the noble Lord Salthvor, would be a real prize. He'd be on his way to the Jilectans within hours.
A patrolman came toward them and spoke harshly. "Janok!"
A young native stepped quickly forward. "Yes sir?"
"Translate."
"Yes sir."
The patrolman began to speak and Alan listened, keeping his face down and his eyes focused on the ground.
"You have been brought here to work in the mines. We are searching for a crystalline stone that is quite plentiful in these parts. I will show you a sample of one of these stones so you will be able to recognize them. These crystals are very fragile and are often embedded in solid rock. When this occurs, they must be carefully removed or the crystal will be broken. Severe punishment will be administered if the crystal is chipped in the slightest."
The native was hurrying, trying to keep up with the patrolman's speech. At last he faltered to a stop and fell silent, turning to the patrolman, his eyes widening with apprehension.
The man paused, scowling. "Where did you lose it?"
"You was speaking of breaking the crystals, sir. I's sorry."
The man backtracked and repeated himself. The native translated.
"You will work until you are told to stop. No trips to the water barrel until break is called. There will be overseers watching you at all times, so no bright ideas. Are there any questions?"
There were none.
The patrolman reached into one of his belt pouches and removed something.
"This is an example of one of the stones." He extended his hand, the crystal resting in his palm.
The native translated but Alan was no longer listening. He forgot to hide his face and stared at the object, his heart knocking against his ribs. The thing was milky-white, slightly elongated and faceted like a many-sided diamond. It emitted an aura seething with power and as Alan looked at it he felt his fingertips begin to tingle. He caught his breath and quickly lowered his gaze again.
The patrolman put the stone away and they were herded a little farther on to where the cavern widened slightly. Rocks cut into Alan's bare feet.
A man was standing beside a mass of tools, and on his helmet was the thin, black slash of a sergeant. Alan looked at his nameplate and moved a little closer to Monty.
It was Sergeant Edgebastion, the patrolman he had been warned about. He hoped fervently that Monty had been exaggerating about the man's character. After all, when the patrolman had cuffed him this morning he had already been irritated at Dalik's escape and the lieutenant's injury --
As the slaves approached, the man took a small, metallic object from his belt. He looked around and singled out the translator.
"Janok!" he grated.
The native gasped shrilly and stepped forward, cringing. The sergeant lifted the object and pressed a button. The slave doubled over with a scream. Edgebastion touched the button again and the translator fell to the ground, writhing. Monty's hand closed tightly on Alan's arm.
"Easy, kid," he breathed.
The sergeant kicked the native in the side. "Get up, scum."
The translator made it to his knees. Edgebastion surveyed the assembled slaves and pointed the object at them. Two men in the front shrank back. Edgebastion grinned.
"This is a shocker, sandcrawlers. No trouble." He nudged the translator with his foot. "Translate, Janok. And next time, keep up when we speak."
Janok choked out the words and the sergeant stepped aside. The slaves went forward to collect their tools, but no one ventured to assist the unfortunate translator. He obviously expected no help, for he staggered to his feet and stumbled beside Alan and Monty toward the implements.
Alan lifted one of the picks with an effort that set his ribs throbbing again. The thing weighed him down and he had no notion at all of how to use it. Slowly, he made his way along the walls of the mine to what he considered a likely looking spot. He swung the pick at the wall and was astonished at the way it rebounded, numbing his hand. He tried again and the pick chipped away a piece of rock that went sliding down the wall, to be followed by a small avalanche of loose gravel.
"All right, scum!"
Alan jumped at the voice, the hair rising on his head, but the words weren't directed at him. A Terran slave was backing away from Sergeant Edgebastion, lifting his hands futilely.
"Please, sir, don't --"
Alan winced as the sergeant raised the shocker, aimed it and fired. The slave screamed and crumpled to his knees. Edgebastion stood over him for a minute and then fired again. Alan turned quickly back to his work, spine tingling. Monty hadn't been exaggerating after all.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the sergeant stride forward and yank the slave to his feet, propelling him back to the spot where he had dropped his pick. "Get movin', scum, and don't try that again. Next time you won't get up."
Alan wondered what the man had done. He glanced toward him, feeling sorry for him and wishing he could help. His empathic talents could be a definite disadvantage in such a situation; that was for sure. That was why the Jilectans regarded empaths with such contempt -- and why very few of the aliens were empaths.
The slave had hefted his pick and was once again hard at work. Sergeant Edgebastion had turned from him and was coming toward Alan. Alan swung his pick dutifully, feeling the jabbing pain in his ribs again. The sergeant went on by and he relaxed, the skin between his shoulder blades crawling.
His fingers were tingling. Alan paused, wiping them across the loincloth, and lifted the pick again. The tingle persisted, spreading into his palms and then to his wrists. Sweat trickled down his face, stinging his eyes, and his ears began to ring thinly. He stopped, drawing a deep breath and rubbing a hand across his eyes.
He leaned forward abruptly, examining the wall. Something was there. Although it was not yet visible, he could feel its presence beneath the concealing rock. Monty, beside him, glanced over apprehensively, muttering under his breath for Alan to get back to work. Alan started to obey and then lowered the pick once more and reached out, brushing away chips of rock and sand. The tingling in his fingers increased. Very carefully, he dug into the packed sand, scraping it away with a fingernail. The edge of one of the crystals came into view.
A patrolman had approached and was standing behind him, watching, but at the moment Alan was too involved in what he was doing to pay much attention to the man. He scraped away more sand from the thing and gave a muted exclamation as the edge of the crystal sliced his finger, drawing blood. It was like a razor, and for an instant it flashed through his mind that these things couldn't possibly have formed naturally, pre-cut and faceted the way they were. Then he forgot about it as the patrolman spoke sharply to Monty. The man turned back to Alan, practically breathing on his neck. Monty moved away for a moment and returned to hand Alan a small chisel. Alan took the injured finger out of his mouth and accepted the tool.
"Careful, kid," Monty muttered, and returned to his work.
Alan wiped blood from his finger on the loincloth and began to chisel away the rock and sand surrounding the crystal. Very carefully, he got a grip on the stone with two fingers and wiggled it loose from the wall. It came free cleanly, leaving its impression sharply imprinted in the sand.
The patrolman had him by the shoulder, pulling him around. "Okay, give it here." He removed the crystal from Alan's hand and turned his head to call over his shoulder. "Sarge!"
Alan took a quick step backwards as Sergeant Edgebastion came toward them. The patrolman handed him the crystal. "Nice-sized one, sir."
"Yeah." Edgebastion took it, stowing it carefully in his pouch. His gaze lit on Alan, leaning wearily against the wall. "Get back to work, scum. You ain't finished by a long shot."
Grateful soul, Alan thought, with a touch of resentment. He hefted the pick and turned to the mine wall again.
Time dragged by. His arms ached and he felt strangely light-headed. He chipped and chipped, the sweat trickling down his face. None of the other slaves had turned up any of the crystals.
"Break," a voice growled.
Alan lowered the pick and sank to the ground, dropping his head to his knees. The other slaves were rushing for the water barrel.
Monty was beside him. "Come on, kid. Better get a drink now. Won't be another chance for four more hours."
He staggered to his feet and Monty steered him toward the barrel. A Procyon slave handed him the dipper and he drank, refilled it and drank again.
"Take it easy, kid," Monty said. "You'll be sick."
Alan dropped the dipper back into the barrel. "I'm not going to make it, Monty. I feel awful."
"Sure, you will. Just don't think ahead. Take it as it comes." Monty sank to the floor and Alan half-collapsed beside him.
"I see what you mean about our kind-hearted overseers," he said.
"Sh!" Monty hid a grin. "Ain't safe t'talk like that around here, kiddo. Keep your nose clean. You'll make it. You got spunk."
"Okay, get back to work!"
Monty gave him a thumbs-up sign and half-lifted him to his feet. Alan picked up the tool again and returned to work. He didn't see how he was going to get through another hour of this, let alone four. He was worn out. His mind began to drift, and a grey haze grew before his eyes. He was sinking down into a soft, comforting dream where nothing mattered. The ring of the picks faded into the distance.
Something was tingling in his fingertips but he ignored it, not wanting to come back to reality. The tingling grew more pronounced -- an irritation that was difficult to keep at bay. He tried to push it back. It was more comfortable to remain in this quiet little world, far from the mine and the patrolmen, and the sweating, miserable slaves --
An alarm bill was ringing within him and Alan's eyes flew open just as he began to swing the pick.
"Watch it!" a voice bellowed.
One of the crystalline stones was buried in the wall, the foremost edge barely protruding from the surface, and the pick descended practically on top of it, jarring it loose. It fell, bounding off a projection in the wall, rock crumbling all around it. Alan dropped the pick and threw himself forward on his knees, trying to catch the stone. His fingers brushed it, sending it flying sideways into another projection. It struck hard and broke neatly in half. Alan grabbed for it again and sprawled forward on his stomach, catching both pieces, one in each hand.
He became suddenly aware of the deep silence around him. The ring of picks and shovels had ceased and he lifted his head to see Monty staring at him in consternation.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees and swiveled around. Sergeant Edgebastion was standing directly behind him. The man stared down at the broken crystal in Alan's hands for a long, terrible second. Then, with a roar of anger, he yanked off his helmet, flinging it aside. A pair of bright, startlingly blue eyes blazed down at Alan.
"You bloody scum! You broke it!"
Alan's heart jerked and began to pound in panic. He was in for it now. For one wild second, he had the urge to run. Run? Run where?
Slowly, his heart knocking painfully against his ribs, he got to his feet again and held out the crystals.
The sergeant snatched them from his hands, tucking them into the pouch at his belt. "You'll pay for this, you little worm!" He lifted a clenched fist.
Alan ducked instinctively, bringing up his arms to cover his face and barely restraining a scream of terror. The fist descended, knocking him sideways to the cave floor. Pain washed over him and, for a moment, consciousness faded. The man kicked him in the side. Alan felt something give as paralyzing agony jolted through him once more. The sergeant hauled him up by his hair and hit him again. The world went grey and he fought back unconsciousness. Above all, he mustn't pass out. If he did, he was sure he would never wake up again. The sergeant was dragging him up once more.
"He looks about done, Sarge," a voice said. "He's one o' the new ones."
Edgebastion cursed and shoved Alan viciously against the wall. He drew the small weapon from his belt and fired.
Pain exploded through Alan, and he heard himself scream. He cringed away, huddling into a ball against the wall of the mine. The patrolman grabbed him by the hair, yanking him to his knees. Alan saw him close up, and the face was ingrained forever in his memory.
Blond, waving hair, plastered wetly to the smooth forehead, high prominent cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. The man was handsome, and in a vague sort of way resembled Mark Linley. Alan stared at him in terror, cowering back.
Edgebastion brought him to his feet and let him go. Alan staggered back, clutching the wall for support. He mustn't fall. He knew that much. If he fell, the man would beat him to death.
The sergeant grinned savagely, revealing two rows of white, perfect teeth. "All right, scum, you listen good! You break another one and I'll kill you! Now get back to work! Translate!" he barked at the interpreter, and strode away.
Still clutching the wall with one hand, Alan bent and lifted the pick. He got it to his shoulder, somehow, and swung it feebly at the rock. The interpreter's voice was an incomprehensible mumble somewhere to his left.
The time dragged by and his blows at the wall grew steadily weaker. The pick weighed on his arms, dragging them down. He must keep going until the end of the shift. Then he could rest and sleep.
Another hour crawled past and Alan knew he wasn't going to make it. The pick was too heavy to lift. Gradually, the dreams crept up on him again and he heard a faint, far-off singing in his ears.
His fingers began to tingle, and instantly he was wide awake, adrenaline shooting through his bloodstream. Another crystal!
Alan swung the pick carefully, ever so carefully, trying to dislodge as few rocks as possible and still appear to be hard at work. The crystal was near, for the tingling in his fingertips was pronounced. Let the blasted thing stay there forever! He certainly didn't want to be the unfortunate finder of another one! The idea occurred to him that if he were able to hand the sarge another solid, unbroken crystal, the man might forget the accident, but deep within him he knew it wasn't so. Edgebastion wasn't the type to forget a mistake. Besides, if Alan discovered too many more of the things, someone might get suspicious and examine him more closely. He'd been the only slave in the mine to find any today. If he turned up a third, now --
His pick struck feebly on what appeared to be solid rock. To his horror, it crumbled into a great mass of loose gravel and stones that rained down toward him. The crystal came with it, gleaming pale in the light of the lamps.
It struck a projection of rock and rebounded straight into Alan's hands. A small sliver of it slid down the wall, landing in the littered rubble at his feet.
Alan sucked in his breath and moved instinctively, placing his bare foot directly on top of the broken piece. He pivoted around in the same motion to find himself face to face with Sergeant Edgebastion. Quickly, he lowered his eyes and extended the crystal.
Edgebastion stared at it a moment in silence and Alan's heart climbed into his throat. Had the man seen?
One of the other guards whistled. "Rings of Trachum! The little mole's dug up another one!" He laughed shortly. "Too bad you had to break that last one, Peewee."
Edgebastion snatched the stone from his hand and placed it in a third belt pouch. "Okay, scum, get back to work."
Alan turned back to the mine wall, feeling the crystal slice into his foot. What was he to do? Edgebastion might not connect the broken chip with the newly discovered crystal but on the other hand Alan knew that the man wasn't likely to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if he lifted his foot now, the sergeant would certainly see the thing and realize he had been attempting to conceal it.
Edgebastion was watching him and he swung the pick carefully, trying not to move his foot. The crystal turned beneath his heel, digging in. Alan tried to ignore it and think. If there was only some way to distract the man. All he would need was a second --
He was weakened, and the pick was unbearably heavy. As he swung it, he looked up and saw a lamp, hanging two meters above him on the wall.
He reached toward the lamp with his mind, sweat running down his face. His telekinetic power wasn't functioning well. The crystal bored into his foot like a miniature drill. The lamp remained stationary.
Fatigue washed over him. The effort was far more exhausting than it had been earlier when he had shut the doors on the patrolmen attempting to pursue Dalik. He couldn't do it now --
He *had* to do it. Forcing himself to think calmly, he paused, leaning on his pick, and closed his eyes, concentrating.
"Get a move on, scum!" Edgebastion growled.
The lamp tilted. With a metallic clang, it jerked on its handle and began to swing, sending shadows dancing eerily across the walls. Slaves and patrolmen glanced upward simultaneously as the lamp detached itself, sprang outward and hurtled downward straight at Edgebastion. The man leaped backward to avoid the thing, which clanged noisily to the mine floor, sending the echoes reverberating around the walls.
It was all the diversion Alan needed. He bent swiftly, snatched up the crystal, popped it into his mouth and pushed it to one cheek with his tongue. Quickly, he hefted the pick.
Edgebastion was picking up the lamp and examining it. Another patrolman came up beside him. "What happened, Sarge?"
The sergeant cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Damned if I know. Thing just came flyin' down at me -- like it was aimin' for me."
The other patrolman cleared his throat, too. "Little quake, maybe?"
"I didn't feel nothin' -- an' none o' the other lamps moved."
The crystal sliced into Alan's cheek. The thing had edges that, he was finding, were sharp as razors. Fluid gathered in his mouth. Exhaustion tugged at him and his arms began to tremble. The pick dropped to the floor again and he leaned on it, panting. His mouth was full of saliva. He began to drool, unable to prevent it.
Pinning the crystal down with his tongue, he swallowed carefully. The thing mustn't go down! Heaven alone knew what it would do to his stomach lining.
"I told you to get back to work, scum!" Edgebastion snapped. He reached for the shocker.
Alan hefted the pick with a Herculean effort. Pain lanced through his side, his eyes refused to focus and his ears were buzzing. He fought it back by sheer willpower, tilted his head up and took a deep breath.
A small, metal box, placed high on the wall, caught his attention. It must be an alarm of some sort.
Fluid filled his mouth and once more he swallowed carefully. The crystal almost escaped and he caught it between his teeth, holding it tightly. Saliva, streaked with blood, trickled from the corner of his mouth. Alan wiped at it with the back of his hand, smearing it across his face. This couldn't go on! It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, too.
Edgebastion was still watching him. His eyes flicked toward the alarm again and he swung the pick with trembling arms. An alarm for what?
He was drooling again. Well, it didn't matter what the alarm was for. It was going off -- now -- before he drowned.
He tried to envision the inner mechanism in his head. His mind was fuzzy; he couldn't seem to focus his clairvoyant power, and saliva ran distractingly down his chin.
Easy, he told himself. Take your time. Edgebastion isn't going to notice a little blood and drool on your face -- not after the way he belted you.
Alan reached upward, straining. Two wires. If he could only cross them, it should trigger the alarm. He groped for them blindly and missed. His eyes blurred suddenly and his head began to swim. A high, clear humming filled the air around him.
Come on! He told himself. This should be easy! Two wires -- two little, bitty wires …
"Get goin', Pipsqueak!" the sergeant snapped. He came forward a step.
Alan tried frantically. The pick on his shoulder weighed him down like a barbell. He felt his knees buckle and dropped heavily forward. The pick slipped sideways, nearly goring him in the thigh.
Two wires. He reached again. Cross, blast you! Cross!
Edgebastion lifted the shocker.
A teeth-shivering blast ripped through the mine, bringing cries of terror from the slaves. Alan cringed away, rolling to one side, but there was no longer any need. Edgebastion was sprinting for the mine entrance.
"Gas pocket! Let's get the hell outta here!"
There was a panic rush of patrolmen for the entrance. The solid metal of the gate parted to allow their exit and then clanged inexorably shut in the faces of half a dozen slaves. The alarm continued to shrill.
There was milling confusion, and a distinctively Terran voice screamed: "They've left us! The bloody bastards have left us to die!"
Alan spit out the stone, dropped it to the ground and pushed sand and gravel over it with his foot. Then he sank his head between his knees, trembling with fatigue and relief.
He remained there for a moment and then lifted his head, looking at the spot where he had buried the crystal. He had time. The guards were gone and the slaves were in a panic, the alarm still reverberating around the walls.
It was mostly impulse that made him do what he did next. He dug quickly through the rubble and located the chip of crystal again. Moving rapidly, he tore a strip from his loincloth and wrapped the chip securely inside, then secreted it under his waistband. Carefully, he tightened the strings to prevent its falling out and leaned back, looking around to see if he had been noticed.
He had not. The slaves were hurling themselves against the locked doors, screaming and pleading to be let out. Alan glanced up at the alarm. Time to stop the panic before someone got hurt.
Coolly, without hurry, he reached upward again. His telekinetic power still wasn't functioning well, but now the frantic need for haste was gone. It took him three tries before he felt the wires separate. The alarm went silent.
Then, over the screams of the slaves, he heard the swish of air through the vents and knew that the patrolmen were cleansing the mine of the supposedly deadly gas. Gradually, the panic ceased and the slaves fell back from the door, staring at one another. Two of the natives almost fell into each other's arms, embracing tightly. A Terran sank to the floor, face in his hands, sobbing with relief.
But the Arcturian, whom Alan had noticed earlier, stepped calmly back from the door, his face tilted upward toward the alarm. For a long moment, he gazed at the mechanism, his golden-green scales glinting in the light of the remaining lamps. Then he turned to look at Alan, seated alone by the wall. Their eyes met and slowly the alien's jaws parted in a broad, toothy grin.
Alan lowered his head to his knees again and closed his eyes. The babble of voices blended into a murmur of sound.
A hand on his shoulder startled him back to full awareness and his head jerked up suddenly enough to make his throbbing skull pound fiercely.
Monty was bending over him. "Man, I ain't never *seen* such cool nerves!" He grinned admiringly. "Didn'tcha know that was the gas alarm?"
Alan nodded. "Guess there wasn't any gas, though, huh?"
"I guess not," Monty said, looking at him uncertainly.
Alan leaned his head back against the wall and the voices of the slaves blurred slowly out. Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes again. The Arcturian slave was kneeling beside him, still grinning broadly, and offering him a dipper of water.
He drank thirstily and handed the dipper back. "Thanks."
The Arcturian's grin widened and the alien inclined his head in a strangely respectful gesture. He rose to his feet and turned, retracing his steps to the water barrel. As Alan watched, he took a long drink and then sank to the rocky floor beside the barrel. His gaze met Alan's once more. Deliberately, he leaned back against the mine wall and closed his eyes.
**********
tbc
