V

by A. C. Crispin

  Donovan choked, then gently touched his friend's face. "Tony . . . God, I'm sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry . . ." He lowered the shroud back over the still, pale features. "Diana?" he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

  "Yes." Martin sounded nearly as anguished as Donovan felt. "She's authorized some . . . medical experiments. She occasionally demonstrates surgical techniques for her staff . . ."

  "I want to kill her," Mike said, his voice hard and brittle.

  Martin's voice was weary. "You'd have to stand in line."

  A groan from the corner made both of them start and turn. A figure in a blue work shirt lay curled in the dark, on the cold floor. Donovan hastened to turn the injured man over, gently. He'd obviously been beaten by someone who was obsessed with doing a thorough job—his features were bruised so badly that it was difficult to get any idea of his age or normal appearance. His left eye was swollen so badly it made a hideous reddish-blue bulge on the side of his head.

  Battered, cracked lips moved, and Donovan made out a hoarse whisper. "Who . . . who are you?"

  "A friend."

  "You're . . . not . . . one of them?"

  "No."

  The man tried to smile, weakly. Mike realized from his dark hair, the intonations of his speech, that he was Mexican. "They tried to make me talk . . . I told them nothing." He grinned, the expression hideous. "Do you have . . . any water? I used . . . the last of mine . . . to spit at Diana."

  "Here," said Martin, holding a cup to the man's lips. He swallowed with an effort, but managed to drink the whole cup, seeming the better for it. Martin came back with some medical supplies. While Donovan cleaned and medicated the man's face, Martin bound his ribs to support them, and gave the man several injections.

  At Donovan's inquiring look, he explained, "To prevent infection. Antibiotics, mostly, but the second one should get him on his feet. I assume you're going to want to take him back with you?"

  Donovan hadn't actually thought about it until Martin spoke, but at the Visitor officer's words, he nodded. "Yeah. Think we can smuggle him into a squad vehicle?"

  "I'll scout ahead, see what I can turn up. There's someone else you ought to take with you. They picked up a young girl yesterday, and I understand she's being used as a hostage to make her father betray one of the underground bases. Diana seemed particularly interested in her, so you'd better get her out of here. She's only a kid."

  "Okay, I'm game. I'll take care of him while you go check on the kid. I'll meet you in the docking bay in . . . ten minutes?"

  Martin checked his chronometer. "Make it fifteen. See you, Mike."

  When he'd gone, Donovan got his patient another cup of water. "Think you can stand now?" he asked, when the man had finished it. "We're gonna try and get off this crate. You up for that?"

  "Believe it, amigo," the man said.

  "Good. My name's Mike Donovan, by the way." They shook.

  "Sancho Gomez."

  "Nice to meet you, Sancho. Too bad it couldn't have been under better circumstances."

  When his chrono indicated that it was time to move, Donovan took Sancho's arm, unstrapped his Visitor sidearm, then put his hand on its butt. "Just a little prisoner transfer to another celiblock," he said, "that's all we are. Try and look scared of me, Sancho."

  "Comprende."

  They reached a hiding place just inside the docking bay without incident. A few minutes later, Martin entered, holding the arm of a terrified-looking teenage girl, her face dirty, tear-stained, smeared with eye makeup.

  Glancing quickly around, Martin motioned to the girl to climb into one of the small squad vehicles. Even as he turned back, Donovan and Sancho were beside him. They climbed into the Visitor craft. Martin nodded, preparing to climb in also. "Let's go."

  "You're coming too?" Mike was surprised.

  "I have to. It's silly to think that nobody saw me with you or Robin. It'll be dangerous for me here now."

  "You ought to stay here, Martin." Donovan leaned out of the craft, his green eyes very intent.

  "What? Why?"

  "We need somebody up here on our side. You'll be invaluable to the underground."

  "But, Mike—" Martin looked frankly scared. "I've got to fly this thing for you."

  "Shit on that. I can fly it. You stay here, Martin."

  "You can't fly this thing!"

  "Wanna bet? I'm a good pilot, and I spent every trip we made together watching everything you did. I can fly it, I know I can."

  "But listen—"

  "Dammit, Martin, admit it!" Mike leaned close to the Visitor, his eyes holding the alien's. "You're scared, right?"

  "I—" Martin's shoulders sagged and he glanced behind him. "It's going to be very dangerous for me."

  "You'll make it." Mike clasped his shoulder. "Nobody even gave Sancho and me a glance. Nobody will connect this little caper with you. Just duck outa sight, so I can get out of here."

  Martin still hesitated. Donovan shook his shoulder roughly. "Dammit, Martin! Dangerous for you? It's dangerous for all of us! I've lost a son, and my partner. And what about Barbara? She was willing to risk me shooting her to help! What does Sancho look like, a day at Disneyland? Hell, we're all damn scared, Martin, but each of us has got to help in the best way we can." He hesitated for a long moment, seeing Martin's quick glance at Sancho. "How about it, man, you game?"

  Martin nodded suddenly. "All right." He pointed to the controls. "You'll have a tendency to overcompensate, Mike. It's very sensitive."

  "Which one controls direction?" Martin showed him. "Good. Speed?" He watched and nodded.

  "And that one over there is your altitude gauge. It's fully fueled. Good luck, Mike."

  "I hope so." Mike hesitantly started the craft. It whined into immediate life. "You ought to sell these babies in New England," he mumbled. "Make a fortune." As Martin turned to leave, Donovan caught his arm.

  "Hey . . . Martin. Thanks. I'm proud to have you as a friend. Our side is lucky you're around."

  Martin nodded. "I'm glad to have you as a friend. Now, if you don't get this thing out of here, we won't live to be old friends—which would be the best of all. So, 'scram' is the word, I believe."

  "Right." Martin hurried away as Donovan closed the hatch. "Strap in, everyone." Just as the newsman began to ease the lever forward, there came a shout. "Damn! We've been spotted! Hang on!"

  He goosed the squad vehicle, which leaped forward with a rush, heading for the landing bay doors. They began to close as the fugitives neared them, and Donovan had to make a quick swerve. The craft bounced slightly as they struck the opposite door—then they were away.

  They soared out into the open blueness of the upper atmosphere. As Donovan eased the lever forward, trying to get the feel of the craft, they were abruptly aimed at the roiling blue-green of the Pacific. The girl sitting next to Donovan gasped shrilly as the vehicle dived, "Pull it up!"

  "I'm trying!" Donovan snapped, pulling back on the lever, fighting panic as the ocean grew in the windscreen. The nose of the craft came up . . . up . . .

  With nearly equal suddenness, the three humans found themselves upside down as the Visitor craft looped violently. The girl screamed. "Shut up, you idiot!" Donovan shouted, fighting the controls. Finally, by using only the lightest of touches, he was able to right the craft and fly in a fairly straight path. He banked into a long, gradual turn that would lead him out to sea. Martin was right—the thing nearly flew itself. But he wanted to practice awhile before attempting a landing.

  "Where are you going, amigo?" asked Sancho, who was sitting in the rear of the craft.

  "Out to sea, so I can try this baby out without being hassled by any other air traffic," Mike said. "I want to practice before I have to even think about any fancy moves or trying a landing. Out here I'll have a little peace and quiet."

  "Uh, I hate to tell you this, Senor Donovan, but I'm afraid we're being hassled."

  "Huh?"

  "There are two other craft like this one
chasing us, and—"

  Sancho was interrupted by something striking the squad vehicle, making it shudder.

  "What was that?" yelped the girl.

  ". . . and shooting at us," finished Sancho. "I think we're in trouble."

  Chapter 18

  Ruby Engels dragged her ancient shopping cart behind her as she walked slowly up the familiar sidewalk. She checked her watch for the twentieth time—twelve-forty. Only a few minutes to go. She took a deep, shivering breath, hoping that God would give her the strength to do what had to be done. In spite of her bravado of that morning, Ruby was scared. All her life she'd been a law-abiding person, and it was hard to change at her age.

  As she walked along, she saw two familiar figures just ahead—people she'd never expected to see again. Quickening her pace, she smiled and waved. "Stanley! Lynn! You're back!"

  Stanley and Lynn Bernstein were standing in their backyard, out near the pool house. They both looked up at Ruby's hail. "Ruby!"

  Leaving her cart at the corner of the driveway, Ruby hastened toward them. "I'm so glad to see you! I thought maybe you wouldn't be coming back!"

  Stanley's arm was bandaged from the elbow down—he held it stiffly, as though the slightest jar would bring agony. Lynn appeared uninjured, but her blue eyes looked changed—as though they'd beheld the worst she could have imagined, and was only now beginning to realize it hadn't destroyed her. She reached out to embrace the older woman, her arms shaking. "Ruby, it's so good to be back!"

  "Where's Abraham?"

  The Bernsteins looked at each other. "We never saw him," Stanley said dully. "When we got home, we saw Daniel." He said the name as if it hurt him. "He hadn't seen him either. He promised to ask his leader, Brian, where Father is, but—" He swallowed. "I'm afraid it's better not to know."

  Lynn put her face in her hands, shaking. "Daniel said he . . . was sorry . . . that we'd been—"

  "Take it easy, Lynn," Stanley said, putting his good arm around his wife.

  "I understand," said Ruby clearly. "Please, Stanley, take care of yourself. Lynn, I'll see you later. Try to get some rest." She patted the younger woman on her bowed shoulder, then walked quickly away.

  She refused to think. Her legs moved mechanically, one-two, one-two, as she reclaimed her shopping cart and followed the path she and her friend had walked so many times. At the first corner, one of their vehicles was parked, hatch open, next to two police cars.

  Ruby stopped. Halfway down the side block, several shock troopers, accompanied by two policemen, were searching some tough-looking youths in front of Visitor posters festooned with the "V" symbol. Cans of red spray paint bore mute witness to the kids' crime. Quickly, Ruby took one of the Molotov cocktails out of its concealment in her shopping cart, then pulled her Zippo lighter out of her pocket. Holding the gasoline-filled bottle concealed beneath her huge purse, she lit the rag fuse as she passed the open hatch. Nobody was watching—the troopers were concentrating on the kids.

  With a quick, sure gesture, Ruby tossed the cocktail into the open shuttle. "This one's for Abraham," she muttered, giving a defiant glance at the Visitors' backs. Then she trotted on, the cart bumping.

  The first, small explosion was joined a second later by a much bigger one. Ruby cast a quick, satisfied glance back to see the shuttle in flames; one of the police cars had also caught. The Visitors and cops were staring at the flames; the kids were only flying, distant figures. She smiled tautly, before she noticed that one of the policemen was watching her over his shoulder.

  Ruby's back stiffened—then she saw his grin, quickly stifled, and the "V" sign he made behind his back for her benefit.

  Ruby Engels walked on down the street, her eyes scanning for another target.

  Chapter 19

  As the delivery truck lurched around a corner, Elias's hands slipped on the steering wheel. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, wiping first his right, then his left palm on the thigh of his jeans. "Hands are sweaty." The sound of another explosion echoed in the distance. "You scared too?" He checked the rearview mirror; the garbage truck was still back there.

  Juliet, sitting beside him, looked tensely through the window at the hulk of a burning police car. "Yeah. I just hope nobody gets hurt. I would hate to lose one of us."

  Robert Maxwell, sitting beside Juliet on the swaying seat of the fast-moving truck, was thinking fast. He stole a quick look at his watch, which showed one forty-seven. Two hours to go. I'll have to break free during the attack and steal some transportation so I can get Kathy and the girls out. He thought of the people in the mountain camp, imagined Juliet's face if she knew how he was betraying them, then resolutely pushed such thoughts out of his mind. Robin. Think of Robin, up there in that damn hulking ship . . .

  The truck turned another corner. Directly ahead of them was a huge concrete and brick building, enclosed within a twelve-foot chain-link fence. Two shock troopers stood guard at the gate. Inside the fence they could see army vehicles parked.

  "There. There's the loading dock, Elias." Juliet pointed.

  "I see it. Hang on!" The truck accelerated toward the gate. With a huge lurch it struck the chain-link and burst through.

  "Look out for the two on the roof!" Juliet shouted. They slewed around, bouncing off a parked troop carrier, then backed up to the loading dock.

  The garbage truck trundled in through the wreckage of the gate and its back door began to open as the pulsing whine of Visitor weapons filled the parking lot. Armed resistance fighters jumped out and began firing at the Visitors. Several fighters produced large framed mirrors, using them to flash the bright sunlight in the faces of the roof guards.

  Juliet jumped out of the delivery truck and ran around to the back, her hip stabbing with pain—she barely felt it. "Open it up! Let's get it loaded! Fast!"

  The rear door of the truck opened and more resistance fighters tumbled out onto the loading dock. They raced inside the armory with Juliet, the sounds of the battle outside following them. Elias came up beside Juliet as she grabbed several guns. "Whoo! Lookit all this hardware!"

  "No time to pick and choose," she snapped. "Load 'em on." Quickly they formed a chain, passing weapons from hand to hand into the truck. Elias and Brad raced around, handing machine guns, a bazooka and ammunition, then a rocket launcher and rockets to the chain. Juliet looked up at a shout to see one fighter dragged in by another, then Robert, who half-carried a moaning woman. "Oh, no!" She hastened over to the wounded. "We've got to get them into the truck!"

  Robert's eyes were wild, his mouth anguished. "I've got to get out of here, warn the mountain camp! They're going to be raided this afternoon!"

  "What?!"

  "Robin is a prisoner—I was only trying to protect her! But there are too many lives at stake—I can't keep quiet and let them be taken!"

  Without waiting for a response, he turned and dashed out of the armory, located a parked jeep, scanned to see if the keys were in the ignition, then climbed in. Juliet hesitated, but there was nothing she could do. Robert started the jeep, gunned the motor, and, crouching low over the wheel, roared away.

  "Elias!" Juliet called. "Help me get these people into the truck!"

  As they carried the wounded man and woman out, she shouted to the other rebels: "The truck's getting full—pass the word. Get ready to haul it out of here! We've got to head straight for the mountain camp—they're going to be raided!"

  The next few minutes passed in a blur, a hideous one. Several more wounded were slung hurriedly into the truck, and Juliet saw that at least one of them wouldn't make it as far as the mountain camp. Elias and Brad oversaw the retreat, while Juliet remained in the rear of the delivery truck with the wounded.

  When she peered out to see how the courtyard fighting was going, Juliet saw many red-clad bodies. All of the alien vehicles were in flames. Even as she watched, the fire spread toward the munitions storage. "Elias!" she shrieked. "Get us out of here!"

  Brad leaped into the rear of the truck just as the en
gine rumbled to life. "Did everyone else make it into the trash truck?" Juliet asked.

  "Yeah." Brad looked around at the jumbled stacks of weapons. "We did okay, looks like."

  "If you can call five wounded, one probably critically, okay then you're right. Come over here." When he reached her side, she continued, "Okay, hold this rag here, until the bleeding stops. How much first aid did they give you as a cop?"

  "I've delivered a baby," he said. "But mostly it was just basic wait-for-the-ambulance stuff."

  "That's better than most people. At least you don't upchuck at the sight of blood."

  "What were you yelling about the mountain camp?"

  "Robert got away just after telling me that the Visitors captured his daughter, Robin, and forced him to give the location of the mountain camp. They're going to raid it. We've got to get our equipment out of there!"

  "Oh, shit! That sonofabitch!"

  "Brad, are you crazy? What do you expect the poor guy to do, just throw away his own daughter's life? I just hope that somehow we can manage to get her back. Maybe this 'Martin' Donovan spoke of can help."

  "Damn. Somebody better."

  By the time the truck left the city behind, they had done all they could for the wounded. Juliet sat on the swaying floor, her back against a pile of army rifles, Lenore's head in her lap. Her hand held the young black woman's, partly for comfort, partly to check her thready, erratic pulse. Brad looked over at them. "She gonna make it?"

  Juliet looked at him soberly and shook her head from side to side. She didn't want to speak aloud because it was barely possible that Lenore could still hear, even though she seemed to be unconscious. Hearing, she knew, was one of the last senses to go.

  "We must be nearly there by now," Brad said, checking his watch. Juliet nodded, looking down at Lenore. The pulse beneath her fingers fluttered, throbbed, fluttered as the woman twitched and gasped. Then it stopped.