Mom has been a major handful this last week and I haven't had time to do much on my fanfic, but typing from a manuscript is another story, so here's the next part of Toomelli's Moon.
Toomelli's Moon: 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VI
Alan was less than a block from the station when a Patrol car settled into the street beside him. Some inner sense made him glance back as he passed, in time to see a short young man in a uniform emerge. The uniform, however, was not the black and scarlet of a patrolman. The material was of unrelieved black with the Patrol insignia on one shoulder. The man stepped out of the car, whistling softly, and swaggered toward a narrow doorway on one side of the street.
The man was young -- probably no older than Alan -- but the most interesting aspect of his appearance, as far as Alan was concerned, was his hair. It was perhaps a shade lighter than Alan's, but curly and unruly. Alan watched as he vanished into the establishment, still whistling. Where had he seen that sort of uniform before?
A Jilectan passed him, heading for the station on foot. Alan jumped and backed away. The alien didn't notice.
Taking a deep breath, Alan approached the aircar and peered through the window.
It wasn't a standard Patrol car. It was less fancy -- less official-looking. There were no weapons that he could see. Was it possible ...?
Alan rubbed a thumb across his chin in an unconscious but perfect imitation of Mark when he was thinking hard. Whoever the young man was, he was only a few centimeters taller than Alan, himself, and in feature they were somewhat similar. Of course, the young man's eyes were blue instead of green, but on an ID, a discrepancy like that should go unnoticed ...
Well, there was only one way to find out. Alan entered the building.
It was a small, elite bar, dimly illuminated with soft, reddish-hued light. Alan's gaze swept the customers and located his quarry. He was seated in a booth with a young woman and they were ordering drinks. Alan strolled across the room and sat down at a table in the corner nearest the bar, watching the couple with growing interest.
The man was holding his companion's hand, speaking softly. Alan, all his senses alert, could almost read his lips. He carefully extended a light mental probe.
The primary emotions were intimate and quite detailed. Alan flushed, trying to reach past them to the young man's thoughts. Yes; he had been right. This was just what he needed. At last, luck was with him. Now, if he could manage to --
He reached deeper, probing, trying to find out everything he could. When he had what he required , he glanced around. What he needed now was a diversion.
The bartender was preparing the couple's drinks. Alan watched the man lift a bottle and pour. Fancy drinks, he thought, thick and foamy and bristling with colorful fruit. He slipped a hand in his pocket and took a capsule from a pillbox in his pocket and set it on the table before him, covering it with his napkin.
The bartender had finished preparing the drinks and was placing them on the counter. A young woman in an abbreviated skirt put the glasses on a tray and took them to the table, setting them before the man and his companion. The man lifted his glass, sipped and replaced it on the table. The waitress came toward Alan.
"Yes, sir?" Her eyes swept his soiled, untidy clothing with disdain.
He ordered a Genuine Terran Cola, wondering absently if it was the real article. Probably not, he thought, and turned to watch the young couple again as the waitress turned away.
They weren't looking at the drinks but Alan wanted to be darned sure they wouldn't see what he did next. The waitress set his Genuine Terran Cola before him and he handed her credit slips, barely noticing. A diversion, he thought again. Something that would make a lot of noise ....
His gaze lit on the stacked crystal behind the counter. Perfect. He reached out with his telekinetic power and one of the glasses on the lower row tipped sideways. The bartender gave a startled yelp and spun as the stacked glassware came down with a terrific crash.
The couple in the booth turned, half-rising to their feet. The capsule flew across the room and dropped silently into the man's drink, vanishing instantly into the foam. The girl laughed shrilly at the bartender's discomfiture and the man echoed her laughter. Alan turned back to his drink and sipped the cola. It was definitely not the real thing, he thought. To a Terran who had grown up drinking the real article, the imitations of the other planets stood out like a sore thumb. Oh well; he had expected no less ....
The man and his date had turned back to the table again. Alan glanced at his chronometer. Barely an hour, now, before the battlecruiser blasted off for Toomelli's Moon ....
Alan's target was holding the girl's hand and lifting the glass to his lips. Alan watched patiently, finishing his imitation cola. The man's laughter grew louder and his companion glanced at him a little uneasily. He finished his drink and lifted a hand toward the waitress. The girl glanced at her chronometer.
"Dave, you don't have time," she protested. "You're supposed to be aboard in twenty-five minutes."
"I am?" Dave glanced at his chronometer. Alan stood up and walked casually toward the door.
He emerged into the street and leaned against the building. The young couple emerged, Dave holding the girl tightly against him. She was trying to pull away, and he let her go. "What's the matter, honey?"
"What's the matter with *you*?"
"Nothing. You're just so pretty I can't resist." He caught her in his arms, kissing her passionately, one hand fumbling for the buttons on her blouse. She jerked away, glancing quickly around. A Jilectan passed in the street, his glance raking over the young man's uniform, his smooth white forehead furrowing with disapproval. Alan smiled a little. The drug, as well as making the Terran who took it wide open to suggestion, also lowered inhibitions -- disposed of them completely, in fact. The girl fastened her blouse again, her face scarlet. "Are you crazy? You'll get in trouble!"
"Aw, honey, I didn't mean anything ..."
She backed away from him. "I've got to go." She turned and almost ran down the sidewalk.
Alan stepped forward. "Hi," he said.
Dave glanced toward him, smiling foolishly. "'Lo."
Alan took his arm. "Come on."
"Okay." The other man went with him toward the aircar and Alan helped him to climb in.
"Move over," he said, and Dave obeyed. Alan got in beside him and took the controls. The vehicle lifted smoothly from the street.
It took about ten minutes to reach the grove of trees where the two patrolmen had been left. The young man sat quietly beside him, glancing neither right nor left, a vacant smile on his lips. Alan settled the car on the other side of the grove, opened the door and helped him out. He came without protest, smiling trustingly into Alan's face. Alan took his hand and led him into the trees.
"Take off your uniform," he said, and once more the Dave obeyed. Alan stripped off his own clothing and dressed quickly in the young man's discarded attire. "Thank you." He motioned to one of the trees. "Sit down, please."
Dave obeyed and Alan fastened him to the tree, feeling a tug of guilt. "Don't worry. I'll be back later to untie you. Okay?"
"Okay," Dave said.
Alan stuffed a handkerchief into his prisoner's mouth and secured it with his shirt. "There. Are you very uncomfortable?"
Dave shook his head. Alan patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be afraid. I'll be back later to let you go. Go to sleep, now."
The young man obediently closed his eyes.
Alan ran back to the aircar and climbed in, lifting off as fast as he could. With luck, Dave would sleep for a good six hours. They would have arrived at the security base by then, and hopefully it would be some time before he could get himself undone, and a while after that before he could get anyone to listen to him.
Glancing at his chronometer, he saw that he had about twenty minutes until takeoff. Plenty of time, as long as he didn't dawdle ...
**********
Mark Linley settled the aircar back into the parking area and started to reach for the button that opened the door. A clawed, green-scaled hand descended on the open window, and he glanced up to see the visored face of an Arcturian grinning down at him. "Patrolman Borrar," the helmet's nameplate proclaimed. Mark gulped.
"It iss I," Dannar said.
"Dan!" Mark took a long breath. "You scared the hell outta me!"
The Arcturian tossed a helmet and gear belt into the car. "We do not have much time." He went around the car and climbed in beside Linley.
Mark picked up the helmet and glanced at the name. He was now Patrolman Jasper Coots of the "Wolverine". Yuk! What a name!
He switched the helmets, tossing the sublieutenant's helmet with its telltale insignia to the floor of the car, and fastened the gear belt. "Where'd you pick these up?"
"I will tell you later. Do not be concerned. Zose who were wearing zem will not need zem in ze future."
"Never mind," Mark said. He fastened the chinstrap and stepped out of the car.
They boarded the ship without hindrance and went to check the duty roster. Mark found, to his relief, that he was a security guard assigned to the second deck -- the officers' quarters. Dannar was in a similar capacity on the seventh deck. Blast! That meant they'd be separated.
Well, there was no help for it. Mark went to his assigned area, relieved to discover that there were no other guards in that particular section. Linley smiled grimly at the officers' names on the doors. It seemed ironic, somehow.
The intercom boomed, announcing fifteen minutes to liftoff. Mark paced his assigned deck, memories flooding back. In the last two years, since he had betrayed the Jilectans and joined the Terran Underground, his life in the Viceregal Patrol had receded into the background. Ten years he had spent aboard ships like this one, and his early years in the Patrol had been gratifying. For a slum kid, who had never known anything but hardship and grinding poverty, he suddenly had clothing, money, and all the food he could eat. It had been wonderful, and he had advanced rapidly through the ranks. His fellow patrolmen liked him and, as in the streets, he had been a natural leader. Three years after joining the Patrol he had won his commission and once again advancement was rapid. Mark had been proud of himself. He'd been a good officer -- the best -- winning high honors in everything he attempted. He'd become Strike Commander of the "Wolverine" at the age of twenty-five. What a day that had been! And then a year later he'd received a routine assignment to hunt down a Terran fugitive who had committed crimes against the Jilectan Autonomy. Unaware of the nature of the crimes and completely indifferent to them, Mark went about his task in his usual manner. He apprehended the fugitive after a difficult chase and proceeded, as was his duty, to take him back to the Jilectans.
But upon meeting the fugitive, his outlook on his profession had undergone a drastic change and he had found himself doing things that he would have never considered before. In the end he had changed sides and rescued his prisoner. Alan had killed the ship's resident Jilectan during the escape to save Mark's life and the two of them had taken off into an uncertain future. It had been the beginning of a new life for him, and he had never regretted it. Not once.
Patrolmen passed him, and one of them took off his helmet as he went by. Mark recognized him instantly and wondered what Lieutenant Elliott would say if he realized that the security guard standing at attention against the corridor bulkhead was his former Strike Commander.
His name bothered him. Jasper Coots -- it had a familiar ring. Mark wracked his brain, trying to match a face to the name, and at last he was successful.
He grimaced inwardly. Jasper Coots had joined the Patrol a year before Mark but, unlike Linley, had failed to advance. Mark knew why, too. The man was undependable, and, with the exception of Wilber Parks, the worst sadist on board. The other patrolmen disliked him intensely. Mark had been indifferent to the man -- until now. Holy hell! Nobody had better examine him too closely. Coots had been a large, loud, physically repulsive man with massive ears and a receding chin. Mark ran a thumb over his own square jaw and sighed. The Arcturian had done his best but it was obvious that he was not too adept at matching features on Terrans. The thought made him grin. The problem was mutual. He was lousy at telling Arcturians apart.
Two officers passed him and Mark saw the helmet of one bore the four red stripes and black star that identified the Strike Commander of the ship. He came to attention and saluted smartly. The Commander returned the salute casually, still engaged in conversation with his fellow officer. Mark caught the name "Kaley" as he passed.
They blasted off a few minutes later. The second deck was all but deserted now, as Mark had known it would be. Everyone was at his post on this most critical mission and Mark knew that there was no way he would be able to free Kaley while on the ship. The prisoner would be in maximum security and under constant surveillance. At least, Mark thought, that was the way Strike Commander Linley would have handled the situation. He was sure Strike Commander Griffen would do the same.
His thoughts strayed to Alan and he smiled grimly. Poor Alan. He hadn't had a chance to explain what had happened to scare him so badly. Probably a Jil had looked at him crossways and he had panicked. Mark grinned sympathetically. Alan had been scared to death of Jilectans since he had met Salthvor. Mark sighed, his grin fading. The boy hated being left behind, but there was no help for it. Alan was too valuable to bring on a mission like this. He knew his partner resented the order, but there was no help for it.
Deliberately, he turned his thoughts away from Alan. How was Dannar doing, he wondered. The seventh deck housed the escape craft hangars and Engineering. Actually, the Arcturian couldn't have picked two less conspicuous positions for them had he tried -- and a damned good thing, too, considering the Terran that he had chosen for Mark to impersonate! Linley wondered if the wily alien had somehow known whom to assault. Arcturians were a strange species -- hard to fathom at times and occasionally far more knowledgeable about certain subjects than Jilectans or Terrans gave them credit for.
An hour passed and then another. Mark continued his rounds dutifully, glancing at his chronometer. He knew that the trip to Toomelli's Moon from Corala took slightly over five hours, so it was unlikely that he would have more than a single coffee break allowed him.
A door opened down the corridor, and the Strike Commander's valet emerged. Mark had had a valet, himself, when in command of this vessel, but he thought that Zacchary Washington must have had an enormously easy time of it. Mark had never liked being waited on.
The valet came toward him, his gaze riveted to the carpeted deck. Linley passed him with hardly a glance, his mind once more on Alan, left behind on Corala. He had taken two steps more when he felt the breath catch in his throat. He stopped dead, stood completely still for a moment and then turned to stare after the valet.
The man was proceeding away from him at a brisk walk, a bundle of clothing and a pair of boots held before him. Mark took in with horror the short, compact form, the dark, curly hair and graceful step. It *couldn't* be! He must be crazy!
He had to be sure.
"Wait a minute, you!" he growled.
The valet froze.
"I wanna talk to you --"
The man spun, his bundle spilling to the deck, his head snapping up. Recognition washed over Mark like a dash of icy water and at the same instant, one of his legs veered sideways of its own accord, right in the middle of a step. He tripped over his own foot and crashed ungracefully forward to hands and knees. There was a violent jerk at his holster and he caught a glimpse of his blaster sailing past him to smack solidly into the valet's hands.
"Wait!" he croaked.
A stunbolt hummed and the electrical charge jolted his muscles. Darkness came down like a blanket.
**********
tbc
