Two Giants For David -- 8/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
9
The evacuation of the Lavirra base was in progress and Walter Kaley, seated in the communications room, surveyed the scanners anxiously and then glanced at his chronometer. "I think we'll make it."
Leroy Burke, seated beside him, made no reply. A young man from his office appeared at the door. Kaley glanced around. "Yes?"
"There's trouble at the brig, sir. A lot of the psychics are there and they're demanding that Lieutenant Vogleman be released."
Two of the Base's military police appeared behind the young man, one of them forcibly restraining the small figure of Ruthy Channing, Eric Vogleman's partner. Kaley came to his feet.
"Lieutenant, what's the meaning of this?"
She glared at him, her slender body rigid in the grasp of the officer. "You traitor!" she shrilled. "Let my partner go!"
"I can't do that, Lieutenant. He was insubordinate and disobedient to orders. I cannot have that kind of behavior --"
"He only said what we're all feeling!" The girl glared at him, tears of frustration wetting her cheeks. "Traitor! Filthy traitor -- turning on your own people! You're the one who should be in the brig, not Eric!"
Kaley gestured to the two police officers. "Take her out of here. Confine her in the brig with her partner."
"You're going to end up with every psychic at the station in the brig!" Ruthy spit at him. "Then will you be happy, General?"
"You're hysterical, Lieutenant. Control yourself!" Kaley gestured to the guards again and the two men led the girl out. He glanced at Burke and sighed. "I guess I'd better go over to the brig and see what's going on."
Burke nodded, not glancing at him and Kaley was aware again of the now-familiar hostility. All his psychics, even his former friend, Leroy Burke, had suddenly turned on him. And now, his non-psychics were beginning to whisper among themselves. Never before had Kaley felt so utterly alone among so many people.
He exited the building and headed across the manicured grounds of the base toward the brig.
The brig was rarely used, as the members of the Terran Underground tended to be a fairly well-behaved bunch but Private Thorpe had been right. A great crowd of people was gathered outside the brig, facing the pair of stolid security men standing before it. Hundreds of hostile eyes turned toward him as he approached.
Kaley stopped a short distance away, a sinking sensation in his stomach. A young lieutenant stepped from the crowd to face him and Kaley recognized Lewis Stevens, the psychic partner to the Lavirra base doctor.
"Stevens, you should be at your post," Kaley said. "We have an emergency here and this is no time for you people to be conducting a sit-in."
Stevens stood still, his face expressionless, until Kaley had ceased to speak.
"General Kaley," he said quietly, "we understand that there's an emergency and we'll be glad to return to our stations when you release Eric and Ruthy from the brig."
Kaley shook his head decisively. "The lieutenants were insubordinate and refused to obey orders."
Another psychic stepped up beside Stevens -- a tiny, wizened man with grey hair and watery blue eyes. Joe Warner had been saved from the Jilectans less than a year before and was partnered with his wife, a plump little woman by the name of Tillie.
"General Kaley." His thin, quavering voice somehow held the ring of authority and everyone present fell silent, listening. "I owe my life to the Underground, as do most of the psychics here. We're grateful for that and would be willing to support whatever decisions you make -- unless that decision involves restraining us if our partners are endangered. We can't do that. Everyone on this base knows that it's the first instinct of a psychic to protect his partner when danger threatens. The youngsters here say, and I tend to agree, that if you would do this to Major Westover, you wouldn't hesitate to do it to one of us if it became convenient. Is that true?"
Kaley cleared his throat. "Major Westover is something of a special case, Lieutenant."
"Because he's a powerful psychic linked to a non? General, the link between Westover and Linley is as strong as any between two psychics, and Linley is as much a part of Alan Westover as any of our partners are to us."
Kaley interrupted him. "Lieutenant Warner, I'm under no compulsion to explain my command decisions to you or to anyone else. You are all to return to your posts at once!"
No one moved and many pairs of hostile eyes continued to watch him. Lewis Stevens lifted an eyebrow at Kaley. "They don't seem inclined to obey you, do they sir? What are you going to do now? Lock us all up?"
Private Thorpe was coming across the grounds toward them and Kaley turned as the young man trotted up. "Message from Terra, sir -- Lieutenant Pierce."
Kaley took the security envelope the man held out to him and opened it. He scanned the message it contained and felt his heart drop into his shoes.
"Pierce to Kaley. Encountered Maj. Westover on TSCH grounds. Very angry. States not returning to TU if Linley dies. Will hold you and Connors personally responsible. States, quote: 'If I'm ever able to get close enough to them, I'll kill them both.' End Message."
Kaley looked up from the message. Scores of eyes were watching him. Slowly, he crumpled the missive in his hand, wondering how many of them had been reading his thoughts as rapidly as he had read the message. If he'd been thinking about it, he would have put up his shields. Psychics weren't supposed to use their telepathic abilities on their comrades but Kaley was no longer confident that these psychics considered him such.
Then, for the first time, he began to realize the gravity of the situation. His psychics were nearly in open revolt against him, and Alan Westover, his most powerful psychic, whom he had tried to protect at all costs, was threatening to kill him. How could one decision involving a psychic's partner have done this much damage?
But apparently it had. General Kaley made a decision then -- a very hard decision for him. In a command post, admission of an error could be damaging but, in this case, denial of the same appeared ultimately fatal. He glanced at the M.P.s beside the door to the brig.
"Release Vogleman and Channing," he said. "All charges against them have been dismissed."
The men saluted and Kaley read relief in their features. There was a concentrated sigh from the psychics.
Kaley took a deep breath and addressed the assembly.
"I realize all of you believe I made a serious error when I restrained Major Westover. I am beginning to believe you may be correct, but please believe that even Generals occasionally make mistakes and, if this was one of them, I will certainly do my best to make amends. Vogleman and Channing are being released and no charges will be pressed. And now, since we are in a state of emergency, I must ask that you all return to your posts."
A murmur ran through the crowd and slowly the masses of people began to break up. Joe Warner lingered, however, his watery blue eyes surveying Kaley with faint amusement.
"A very pretty speech, General," he said suddenly. "I just hope that you get the chance to repeat it to young Alan if and when he returns."
Slowly, the old man turned away and hobbled across the compound toward the barracks.
10
Mark Linley opened his eyes as hands closed on his arms. There were patrolmen everywhere -- ten at least, in the room with him. Through the open panel, he could see even more.
"C'mon, Linley." It was Lieutenant Osborne speaking. "Time to go."
Mark didn't resist as they lifted him from the cot. How long had it been? He had slept for some time after they had dumped him in the brig. Was it possible that they were already on Corala?
No, he could feel the vibration of the ship's engines. They must still be in hyperspace.
Strike Commander Foxe met him as he emerged from the cell. There was a guardroom here, and it was crowded with patrolmen. Mark didn't try to count them as the men hustled him across the deck, down a short corridor and into another cabin. A chair had been fastened to the deck in its center and he was shoved roughly into it. A length of rope was passed around him, binding him in tightly.
More interrogation, he thought. The Patrol still hadn't given up hope of trying to lure Alan in. Murphy, busily looping the rope around him, jostled Mark's injured arm. Linley gave an involuntary gasp and the man grinned, deliberately repeating the action.
"Easy, Murphy." Foxe motioned the men back. "Don't forget what happened to Zimmerman."
Murphy frowned. "What do you mean, sir?"
Foxe didn't answer. He stepped before Mark, his lips drawn into a thin, straight line.
"Zimmerman is dead, Linley," he said.
Mark cleared his throat. "That so?"
"Yes. Strange coincidence, too. It happened, apparently, right after that last interrogation. He left the ship and we found him two hours later in the gym. He'd been shot through the head with a needle beam. The Terran spacers don't carry blasters."
"My condolences," Mark said.
Foxe reached down, gripping him beneath the chin. "You know what I'm saying, Mark. Zimmerman died right after he broke your arm. It's just too much of a coincidence, I think. You must have told young Alan about him."
Murphy went pale, taking a step back from Mark.
Linley shook his head. "How many times do I hafta say it. I ain't a psychic."
Foxe's thumb dug into his neck. "Maybe not, but I think you know how to communicate with your partner. Tell me where he is now."
"Probably back at the station. Dammit, *I* don't know!"
"Like hell. He's aboard this ship."
"You're crazy --" He broke off, hearing Alan's voice clearly in his mind again.
*Mark, it's me.*
*Kid!* Mark voiced the word in his mind, desperately trying to transmit to his partner. *Stay away! They're layin' for you!*
*I'm on board the ship. I'm coming for you. Just hold out a little longer.*
*Be careful, for God's sake! They know you're here!*
A fist cracked him across the face and the contact with Alan dissolved in a burst of pain. Foxe had pushed up his dark visor and was watching Mark with interest.
"So he *is* aboard! I don't suppose that even the great Alan Westover could send a telepathic message through hyperspace! What did he say this time?"
Linley swallowed, staring into the cold, grey eyes of the Strike Commander. "Whatcha mean?"
"Oh, come on, Mark! I've seen the Jils do that 'til I can spot a telepathic communication a light-year away. Suddenly your voice trails off, your eyes go blank and you lose contact with everything going on around you. What did your partner have to say to you?"
"You're imaginin' things."
Foxe turned sharply to Osborne. "Have Dr. Haberthy come here at once."
"Yes sir." Osborne went to a wall communicator and spoke into it. A voice responded.
Mark looked painfully up at Foxe. "Whatcha gonna do?"
Foxe seated himself, crossing his legs and resting his hands precisely in his lap. "I'm going to catch Westover," he said quietly. "You know where he is and you're going to tell us."
"I'm conditioned against drugs. All Underground members are."
"We'll see." Foxe looked around as the Patrol doctor entered. "Haberthy, we'll be needing a small dose of sweetgrass."
Mark swallowed. Doctors in the Viceregal Patrol typically came in two varieties. There were those who, through some misfortune, had ended up in the Patrol. The Jils supplied medical training for persons with an interest in the subject, provided that such persons worked for them after the training was completed. Most of these men were good doctors, but as the years passed, their casualty rate tended to be high. The Patrol lost most of them within twenty years -- the majority through suicide, nervous breakdowns, drug addiction or alcoholism. Then there was the second type of doctor -- the kind that joined the Patrol because they liked the money and benefits and didn't mind -- perhaps even enjoyed -- seeing their fellows suffer. Dr. Haberthy was almost certainly the second sort.
The doctor placed his bag on the table and removed a syringe and a vial of clear fluid. Mark swallowed. "C'mon, Tim, I don't know where Alan is. You don't need that stuff."
Foxe smiled thinly, but didn't answer.
"I'm not a psychic, for the luvamike! Non-psychics can't communicate with psychics! You're wastin' your time!"
"The time is mine to waste," Foxe said mildly. "Go ahead, Doctor."
Mark braced himself. He was scared now -- more scared than he had been since this whole business started. He had seen interrogations under sweetgrass before. More often than not, they were successful.
He gritted his teeth as the doctor inserted the needle into an arm vein. An ache spread up his arm and into his shoulder and neck. His vision blurred and he felt his muscles relax.
"He'll be ready in a minute, sir," the doctor said.
"All right."
Moments slid by and Mark felt the stuff start to work. Nothing mattered -- nothing at all. Why fight anymore?
Then his conditioning took over and Alan's face appeared before him. He heard his partner's voice. "It matters, Mark. It matters a lot. Listen to me, not them. You mustn't talk to them...."
Linley felt the first stab of pain and began to struggle blindly against the ropes on his wrists. "I won't talk," he mumbled.
"Conditioning." Faintly, he heard the doctor's voice.
"Maybe we can bypass it." The second voice was soft and coaxing. "Think of your partner, Mark."
Mark had no choice. Alan's face was all he could see, and the image of his partner strengthened his resolve. He mustn't talk to anyone, He mustn't. Alan's safety depended on it.... Wrenching pain tore through him and he heard himself scream.
"Think of Alan, Mark. Think of him -- call him." Again came Foxe's soft, coaxing voice. "He can help you...."
The pain was unbearable. Mark screamed again. Alan's face faded out.
"What's wrong?" The query was sharp, penetrating the mists of agony.
"I don't know." The doctor's voice sounded alarmed. "Holy space --"
"He's having trouble breathing!" Foxe's voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. "What's the matter?"
"He's having a reaction to the sweetgrass, I think. Damn!" The voices faded even more. Mark felt himself begin to drift, and the pain receded slightly. Alan's face swam into view again and now his partner was smiling at him.
*Mark, it's okay. I'm here.*
*Kid!* he gasped. *Don't! They're waitin' for you!*
The doctor was right. He couldn't breathe. He was dying -- suffocating. Somewhere, very far away, there was another voice speaking. A needle jabbed his arm.
Then, nothing at all.
**********
Alan came wide awake, a sense of alarm coursing through him. Mark! Mark was in danger -- terrible danger! Alan scrambled to his feet and started for the door almost before he was aware of what he was doing. Then he stopped, mangling his lower lip. There was nothing he could do to help Mark until Kurt returned.
Alan closed his eyes, reaching desperately for his partner. Pain surged through him and he gave a surprised cry.
*Mark!* he called.
Pain. There was pain everywhere. Alan drew back involuntarily. What were they doing to his partner? Fury surged through him. Strike Commander Foxe would pay for this! They must be using pain stimulus drugs. Nothing else could produce this kind of generalized agony.
Mark was passing out. Alan sensed slowly the lessening of pain and tried to lend Mark reassurance as his consciousness faded. *Mark, it's okay. I'm here.*
Linley's eyes were closed, but his lips moved. Alan couldn't make out the words, but for one awful instant, he thought he could feel Mark struggling for breath. Then the contact faded and was gone.
Had they killed Mark? Alan's heart was beating fast in sheer panic. They couldn't have! They wouldn't dare! As Kurt had said, the Jils would kill *them* if they did. But people had died unexpectedly during interrogations before.
He paced, wishing desperately that Kurt would return. What was holding him up? What could possibly be taking so long? He glanced at his chronometer, surprised to realize that only an hour had passed since McDougal had left.
Here he came now. Alan sensed his approaching presence at once.
The door slid open and Kurt entered, his face grave. "I think we'd better hurry."
"I know." Alan snatched his clothes from the chair. "They're using drugs on Mark."
Kurt's eyes widened. "Yeah, they are. I saw them carry him back to his cell. He was out cold and they were worried about him. I could tell, and the Patrol doctor was with him. Apparently he had a bad reaction to a dose of sweetgrass."
"Sweetgrass! Are you sure?"
"I smelled it when they brought him out. Listen, I got the fuel casing and I know where he's being held. He's in the third cell down and there's six 'trols in the guardroom, watching him. That better be a pretty powerful sleep pellet."
"It is. Now we've got to get a uniform for you, somehow." He paused, suddenly aware of something. "There's someone coming. Two people."
"The 'trols are doing a cabin by cabin search of the crews' quarters. We're going to be checked out. Better hide that blaster good."
Alan nodded, his mind racing. "Maybe we can get a uniform from one of them. You a pretty good shot with a stunner?"
McDougal nodded. "Best in my graduating class. What do you want me to do?"
"I'll get them off their guard." Alan slipped the robe on again over his uniform, concealing the blaster beneath it. "Then, when I give you the signal, pick one out and stun him. I'll get the other one."
"How'll you know which one I'm going to shoot? We'll have to hit them both at the same time."
"I'll be listening to your thoughts," Alan said. "If you don't mind."
"Not a bit." Kurt grinned suddenly. "Wish I was a psychic."
A knock sounded on the door. "Viceregal Patrol! Open up!"
Alan lay down on his bunk and Kurt went to the door.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"We've got orders to search your cabin." The men pushed their way inside and Alan sat up, blinking sleepily. One of the patrolmen was holding a blaster and he gestured with the weapon. "Get over there by the bulkhead, both of you. Don't interfere and you won't get hurt."
Alan rose from his bunk and obeyed. Kurt moved over beside him, glowering at the two men. "What the devil are you looking for?"
"Alan Westover, sonny." The man holding the blaster grinned nastily at him. "The Strike Commander thinks he's on board somewhere." He lounged against the opposite bulkhead, his blaster pointed in their general direction, while his companion began to search the cabin, dumping articles on the floor and tearing sheets from the bunks. The patrolman with the blaster noted the carton of cigarettes on Alan's dresser and picked it up, jamming the box into his pouch.
"I don't think he's likely to be hiding in the ash tray," Kurt said acidly, "or the cigarette carton, either."
The man grinned and patted his pouch. "Report it," he suggested. "Nobody's gonna do anythin'. I wanna see your wallets before we leave. I'm a little short this month."
The man doing the actual search leaned over Kurt's bunk, heaving at the mattress. Alan reached out carefully and gave him a telekinetic pinch on one buttock.
The patrolman grunted with surprise and annoyance. He spun, glancing quickly at the two young spacers, who were obviously too far away to have committed the deed, and then at his fellow, still lounging against the bulkhead beside him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Huh? What're you talkin' about?"
The first patrolman glowered at his companion. "You know damn well what I mean! Keep your hands to yourself, Frizzel!"
Frizzel flushed angrily. "What the devil are you talkin' about?"
The offended patrolman glanced at the two spacers and then back at Frizzel. "We'll discuss it later," he said and returned to his task. Frizzel stared at him blankly for a moment and then turned his attention to the two spacers again. Alan reached out a second time.
The first man yipped and then spun with a roar of fury. Frizzel turned toward him, his mouth open in surprise. The offended man swung.
His fist connected with Frizzel's jaw and the man staggered back with a grunt of pain. His attacker leaped forward, catching him by the collar and dragging him upright. Alan caught Kurt's eye and nodded. Their weapons hummed simultaneously.
Kurt gave a triumphant crow. "That was great! What did you do?"
Alan told him. Kurt grinned. "That's priceless. Let's see, now -- Patrolman Frizzel is nearest my size...." He began to strip the uniform from the patrolman. Alan stripped off his robe.
"Is there a matter conversion chute around here somewhere?"
"Yeah -- right down the way." Kurt pulled on a boot. "Why?"
"We've got to get rid of these guys, somehow."
Kurt looked a little uncertain and then shrugged. "You're right. If they wake up, they're going to sound the alarm." His mouth hardened. "I'll think about what they did to me. That should make it easier." He examined the boot and then pulled on the other one and stood up, stamping a little to settle his foot firmly into it. "Not a bad fit. I always did have big feet for my height."
"Don't forget the nose filters."
"They're already in," Kurt said. He settled the helmet on his head. "This thing is awfully uncomfortable. How do these guys get used to them?"
"They don't, according to Mark." Alan glanced at his chronometer. "Okay, let's get busy."
**********
"Ready?" Alan asked, a short time later.
"Yeah." Kurt adjusted his helmet for the tenth time. "Let's go."
Alan held the door for him. "All right then, it's show time. You first, sir. And don't forget; you're a 'trol. Act like one."
Kurt stepped out into the corridor and headed toward the lift. Alan followed twenty paces behind. A spacer passed, giving Kurt a wide berth but nodding amiably at Alan. The lift sensed their approach and opened automatically for them. Alan and Kurt boarded.
They ascended slowly to the third level, where the brig was located. Kurt was watching him and Alan gave him a reassuring smile, hoping sincerely that Kurt would hold onto his nerve until the most dangerous part of the mission finished.
The lift slowed and Alan nodded and turned his back to his companion. "Okay, do your stuff, 'trol."
Kurt took Alan in a Patrol arm lock, which Alan had demonstrated in their quarters earlier.
"That's good," Alan said. "Make it a little tighter, and act mean. You're a 'trol, remember, and I'm a troublemaker."
Kurt obeyed and Alan had to bite back a gasp of pain as the grip tightened. The lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Kurt pushed him roughly forward. "Move, twerp!" he snapped in Basic.
Alan stumbled forward, trying to struggle quite unsuccessfully. Kurt was a strong man and at the moment he was scared. The patrolman guarding the lift glanced at them curiously. "Trouble?"
"Not any more," Kurt growled and shoved Alan on.
They proceeded down the corridor, which curved gently, following the inner side of the ship's hull, and Alan saw before them a door with two patrolmen standing on either side of it. Fifteen meters beyond, a large fuel casing was parked conspicuously against one bulkhead. Alan knew that Kurt must have put it there earlier, and, typically, probably no one would think to move it for the duration of the trip.
Kurt paused before the door and nodded to the two guards. "Open it."
One of the men pressed a button to one side of the door and the panel opened smartly. Kurt pushed Alan through.
Inside, was the guardroom. Several surprised faces turned as they entered, and the door slid shut behind them with a decisive click. Kurt's grasp loosened slightly.
Alan lunged forward with a strangled cry, apparently breaking Kurt's hold and swinging wildly at the patrolmen around him. There was confused motion as the men grabbed for him and Alan felt his arms caught in another, equally painful hold.
Then the hands on his arms were loosening and, all around him, the patrolmen were dropping. Alan leaped free of the collapsing bodies, glancing at Kurt and placing one hand over his mouth to remind him to breathe only through his nose. One breath through the mouth and McDougal would join the six men on the deck.
The alarm was right over the door of the cell in which Mark was confined, and an antigrav gurney was tilted on one end, leaning against the bulkhead a few feet away. Alan disabled it and an instant later the lock on the cell clicked. The door slid open as Alan reached absently with telekinesis for a blaster worn by one of the unconscious men on the deck.
Two startled figures turned and then sank to the floor beside the prisoner's cot as sleep gas flooded the room. Alan stuffed the weapon into his belt and ran to Mark.
Linley lay still, his eyes closed, and his face pale as death under the cuts and bruises. Alan nodded at Kurt. "Hit the exhaust," he said. "In Mark's shape, he shouldn't breathe the gas any longer than he has to."
"Right." Kurt did so. The whine of the exhaust blowers filled the cabin. An instant later, he was floating the gurney into the cell. "This should help move him for as far as we need to," he said.
Alan nodded, and together the two of them dragged and wrestled Mark onto it.
"Can you handle it by yourself?" Alan asked, as he fastened the final strap.
"Sure. Lead on." Kurt maneuvered the floating litter around to fit through the door. Alan drew his blaster and led the way from the cell.
There were still the guards at the door to be disposed of. Alan started for the exit and then leaped back at the sudden flash of warning. The door slid open and Strike Commander Foxe strode through. The two security guards entered behind him and the door slid shut.
For a split instant, Foxe froze in surprise at the sight before him and then his hand darted for his sidearm. Alan fired.
Barely two meters from him, the Strike Commander dropped with a needle beam through the head. The other two men were going for their weapons as Alan fired again.
A shot from behind zinged past Alan's right ear, missing him by the fraction of a centimeter and the second guard dropped in his tracks before the first guard hit the floor.
For an instant, everything was silent and then Alan looked back at Kurt McDougal. Kurt was pushing the Patrol blaster into his holster with a hand that wasn't completely steady.
"Nice shot," Alan said, keeping his voice casual with an effort. "Guess I'm lucky to still have my ear, huh?"
Kurt shook his head. "Best shot in my graduating class," he said. "I told you I had to be good."
"Yeah," Alan said. "I guess you did." Without further comment, he bent and dragged the Strike Commander farther into the room.
Kurt helped him with the two guards and then returned to the floating gurney. "Let's get out of here before anybody else shows up."
"I'm with you. There's no one out there," Alan added. "Let's move." He pressed the button that opened the door. McDougal went out, floating Mark before him and they hurried to the spot where the fuel casing sat innocently against the bulkhead. Alan opened the casing and between them they shifted Linley from the litter and into the hollow interior from which Kurt had earlier stripped the mechanism. Quickly, he closed the device and activated the antigrav unit. Kurt pushed the floating litter back into the guardroom.
"Let's go," Alan said.
Kurt nodded.
Alan straightened his wig and clothing and walked ahead of Kurt back toward the lift. The patrolman on guard might well recognize him as the prisoner who had passed a few minutes ago, so he must be ready. His blaster was in his hand as he rounded the bend of the corridor. "Freeze!"
He had intended to hold the man at blaster point until he could get close enough to stun him, but, to his horror, the guard made a grab for his own weapon and his mouth opened to shout. Alan had no choice.
He fired, and the crack of the weapon sounded like a thunderbolt to his ears. Kurt rounded the corner at a run, pushing the fuel casing ahead of him.
The lift opened as he arrived and he and Alan shoved the casing inside.
They would have to move, for their time was running out fast. Within moments, someone would arrive to investigate the shot and the alarm would be sounded. There was no way they were going to make it to the sixth deck before the alarm went off, Alan thought, but maybe they could misdirect people for a little while -- perhaps long enough to give them an opening.
**********
tbc
