V

by A. C. Crispin

  "No, don't bother, I owe you more than I ever can repay. If you hadn't given me the contents of those ration packages Lorraine managed to smuggle to you, and lived on what you could scarf up in this dump, I wouldn't be alive. It just takes getting used to."

  Out of deference to Donovan's delicate stomach, Martin considerately dispatched the rat before swallowing it. "Our peoples are very similar in some ways," he said, "but very different in others."

  "What's your history like? Have you always been scratching to survive, fighting amongst yourselves?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, we were much more peaceful in our history than you were, until Our Leader came. Now we have the Fifth Column aboard the ships, and, back home, there is the Alliance."

  "The Alliance? What are they, interstellar Marxists, or just your everyday radical movement?"

  "They are the ones who opposed the Leader. They are more of a moderate voice, I guess you could say. They were against the plan to take over Earth, for example. They're made up of largely the more . . . intellectual segment of our society. They have good ideas—but they're not big on fighting for them."

  "But if you could ally them with the Fifth column, which has a lot of military experts like yourself, maybe—"

  "Maybe." Martin said heavily. "But at the moment, what's the use of thinking about them? They're light-years away, and have no ships, little armament."

  "Guess I won't wait for the bugle charge, then." Martin looked at him, obviously not understanding. "They can't help us, then," Mike translated.

  "No," Martin agreed.

  "But maybe you could help them. If you could take over one of the Mother Ships—"

  "That would be a tremendous aid to their efforts against the Leader—but at the moment there seems little likelihood of that."

  "We'll get out of here," Donovan said, trying to believe it himself. "Maybe Lorraine will be able to bring some more food—more weapons—"

  "She took an incredible risk the last time. I told her not to do it again."

  "She's a gutsy lady."

  "Yes."

  "All of your people have guts. Did I know the guy who put on my face and tried to kill Diana?"

  "Yes. It was Barbara."

  "Oh . . ." Donovan felt a quick, intense grief, remembering the way the young Visitor had tried to help him. "I'm sorry."

  They were silent for a long time. Donovan felt himself slipping down toward sleep—or something deeper than sleep. He fought it. "How much longer do you think we can hold out down here?"

  "I don't know. Without you to keep me awake, share your body heat, I would have slipped off into hibernation days ago. I can probably survive longer than you can, eating the rats escaped from the laboratories, but when you are gone, there will be no one to keep me awake. So I will go too." Martin blinked at him. "Do you mind talking for a while? I must stay awake."

  "Me too," Mike said. "What do you want to talk about?"

  "I would like to understand you better, you humans. Tell me about yourself. What frightens you . . . and why. What you have learned since this whole thing began."

  "I can't remember what it was like before. It seems to have been like this forever," Donovan said. "As to what frightens me—a lot of things, frankly. Some I don't like to admit to." He thought for a moment. "I'm scared to die, yeah. For a long time I was scared of being too close to others. But not so much anymore."

  He looked down at his hands, using his thumbnail to scrape some of the filth away, peeling it off in little black strings. "I'm scared of failing," he said. "So much depends on us. I've always had a thing about not failing. Made me kinda reckless, an overachiever. Probably wrecked my marriage, that tendency. I always put it all on Margie, but now when I think about it . . ." he trailed off, scratching thoughtfully at his beard.

  He sat for a long moment. "People who hold too much power scare me. Diana scares the living hell out of me. I don't understand people like that."

  Martin settled back against the comparatively dry side of the beam. "What else frightens you?"

  "Falling. I have dreams about falling from a great height. Looking down from a really high place makes my hands crawl, 'cause I think about falling."

  "But you're a pilot. You must've had to parachute at some point in your training."

  "Yeah. I jumped twice. I was never thrilled about it, though. It was just something I had to do in order to fly, and I wanted to fly more than anything else in the world. Then one night I was on a photo-recon mission over supply lines leading to Hanoi, piloting a U-2—that Widowmaker was a bitch to handle—and I took a burst on my right wing. I ejected about three thousand feet up . . . and my parachute didn't open."

  "What? Then how—"

  "Oh, my reserve 'chute worked. A bit of a rough landing—but the hike back behind our lines was the real pain. But ever since then, I dream every so often about those first couple of seconds when I was falling, and my first 'chute went bust." He smiled wryly. "I was so scared I damn near wet myself."

  They were silent for a few minutes. Donovan noticed Martin's eyes starting to close, and shoved him with his foot. "Your turn. What frightens you?"

  "That I may be wrong to be working against my own people—my own leaders."

  Donovan looked at him. "Do me a favor. Don't struggle too much with that one until we get out of here, okay?"

  Martin smiled.

  Donovan hesitated. "You know that I'm really sorry I got you into this mess. If only I'd been able to keep my mouth shut back in that lab . . ."

  "It wasn't your fault. It was just a matter of time until somebody discovered me anyway."

  Another rat scuttled along one of the overhead pipes. Donovan looked up at it, a struggle going on in his face. Martin took out his sidearm and offered it to the human. Donovan shrugged, nodded, and shot the creature.

  He retrieved the scorched little body distastefully, handing Martin back his pistol. "Well . . . at least it's cooked . . ."

  "What's the most unsavory thing you've ever eaten?"

  "I don't know. It was better not to identify the stuff they gave us to eat in prison camps." Donovan took out his pocket knife, began skinning the rodent.

  After his unsavory meal, Donovan fell asleep. Martin, knowing that he shouldn't sit still, prowled around the hold for several hours, keeping a wary eye out for troopers. He was near one of the hatchways when he saw a small steel box bolted to a beam. Excitedly he opened it, finding two small plastic-wrapped bundles. Then he went back to find Donovan.

  Mike awoke to a gently placed foot in his side. "Wake up, Donovan! Look what I've found!"

  "Wha—" He rolled over, feeling the remains of the rat move lumpily in his belly.

  "Come on." Martin beckoned him to follow. As they walked, he explained, "I've discovered one of the old emergency hatchways. It's our way out!"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "An obsolete escape system. Abandoned when they built more landing bays and increased the number of squad vehicles. Our ships are assembled in giant grid-networks out in space, but the engineers knew they would be within the bounds of an atmosphere much of the time. So the original engineers designed a system of hatchways, stocking them with emergency slides and parachutes. I've found one of the hatchways, and the 'chutes were still there!"

  Donovan followed him, still groggy with sleep and too little food. At last Martin stopped, pointing at a hatchway in the deck. "Help me turn the wheel on top."

  The two struggled for minutes, but finally, with a hiss like a pressurized can opening, the wheel moved. They turned it quickly, then levered the hatch up.

  Bitter cold fresh air rushed in. Below them were only sky and clouds, and far far away, like the bottom of a well, the ground. From this distance it looked like a contour map, unreal.

  "Here, put this on," Martin said, thrusting his arms through the straps attached to the small plastic square, then drawing a belt out of a slot in the side and clicking it into place across his chest.

/>   "Do you mean," Donovan's voice was very odd, "that we're gonna jump?"

  "How else?" Martin glanced up. "Fly?"

  "But—"

  "It goes over your arms like this," Martin said, helping Donovan on with the parachute as one helps a four-year-old with a winter coat. "Now the strap across your chest, like so—"

  "I'm dreaming," Donovan said in a tight voice. "I was talking about this before I fell asleep, and I'm dreaming right now. I'm gonna wake up, still sick from that damn rat, and find this is all a dream . . ."

  "Don't be an idiot, Mike! This is the only way out! It's a miracle that I even found these 'chutes—they must've been down here for twenty years or so."

  "Oh, great. Do they come with a money-back guarantee? There's not even a reserve 'chute with 'em."

  "They'll work. They've got to. Come on, Donovan! This is the only way!"

  "That's what your buddy Oliver said when he gave me the green capsule. Sure death—"

  "It's not. Just close your eyes, Donovan. One step. Snapping the chest buckle activates the unit. The 'chute opens on its own."

  "We'll get fouled on the bottom of the ship—"

  "No, you'll fall free for the first thousand meters or so."

  "Fall free?" Donovan took a quick step backward. "You go first, Martin. I'll follow you."

  "All right, Mike. I trust you, my friend." The Visitor walked around the hatch to get a clear shot at the opening. As he passed behind Donovan, his foot lashed out with that blurring alien quickness, catching the human in the seat of his pants, booting him out and down into the free air. Martin heard Mike's yell, composed of equal parts of indignation, rage, and fear and grinned. "But not too much." Still smiling, he stepped out over nothingness.

  Chapter 29

  Diana stalked furiously through the coridors of the Mother Ship. Seeing her aide ahead, she snapped, "I just received your message. Where are they?"

  The Captain lowered his voice. "The Deck Five Conference Chamber."

  Diana acknowledged the information with a curt nod, then returned to her lab/office. Pressing a button concealed behind one of the drapes in the sleeping area, she watched impatiently as the wall slid aside to present a monitoring system, complete with viewscreen. Activating it, she saw a view of the conference already in progress—the conference she'd only discovered through hearsay.

  John, the Supreme Commander, was saying, ". . . know I'm undermanned here. I need to delegate as much authority as I can."

  Pamela shook her head reprovingly. "You forget, John, Diana is not a military commander, though I don't doubt she's attempted to assume that role. Her dubious relationship with Our Leader has fired her ambition far beyond her capabilities. When all is said and done, she is only a scientist, after all."

  Steven nodded gravely. "And Our Leader himself has warned of the dangers of personal obsessions with power."

  "It pains me to say this," Pamela said, "but she is jeopardizing your control of the Fleet, John."

  Diana snarled at the screen. "Oh, I'll bet it pains you!"

  "When you consider the balance sheet," Pamela continued, "her failures outnumber her successes. Look at the hospital fiasco. And then the escape of both Donovan and Parrish. She's frankly becoming a burden we have to clean up after—and I'll bet you're tired of covering up for her mistakes, John."

  Reluctantly, John nodded. Diana slammed her hand against the wall.

  Pamela's voice was regretful. "Frankly, neither Steven nor I enjoy undermining one of your staff—"

  "You love it!" Diana told the Supreme Commander's image, venom flooding her mouth.

  "But for the good of the mission, we felt we should discuss it with you," Pamela finished.

  "I appreciate your having spoken to me," John said heavily. "I know how distressing it must have been for you and Steven to come forward with this. I'll take the matter under consideration."

  Pamela smiled sympathetically. "I'm sure your decision, whatever it is, will be the correct one."

  Diana's hand came down on the "off" button with a slam. "You bitch!" She spent a few minutes calming herself, then walked to the Deck Five Conference Chamber.

  Signaling the door to open, she walked in, smiling. "Ah! John! How nice to see you here! My Captain just notified me that your ship had docked some little while ago."

  The three in the room were clearly taken aback, "Greetings, Diana," John said. "We would have notified you of our little conference, but—"

  Pamela broke in as John hesitated, "We felt you had enough to deal with. And, since this was a military conference, I'm sure you understand."

  Diana smiled, nodding. "Of course. I am only a scientist after all." With considerable satisfaction she watched her choice of words spread consternation among them.

  "But I wanted to let you three know, as the military commanders of this mission, that I have taken it upon myself to make and implement a military decision. One that I think was long overdue."

  Pamela's smile became a trifle forced. "Nothing too . . . exotic . . . I hope."

  "Exotic to an amateur, perhaps. I should think it would seem inordinately fundamental to a professional." She paused for a beat. "I have planted a spy among the most prevalent and irritating of the resistance groups."

  "You what?" Steven sat up straighter.

  "You've exceeded your authority, Diana!" John said.

  "Yes, fortunately," Diana agreed calmly, then turned to Steven. "This should have occurred to you, Steven. You're the Military Security Officer."

  "You've gone too far, Diana!" Steven retorted.

  "Wait a minute." John turned to him. "Why didn't you plant a spy, Steven?"

  As Steven faltered, Pamela broke in smoothly. "We were going to. A spy working for us. Now she's planted one—but who is this spy working for? Diana—or us? We have a chain of command, John, that must be followed."

  "Yes," said Steven, with a glare at Diana. "Break that chain, and you have chaos."

  "And out of chaos—what?" Pamela leaned back in her chart "Revolution, perhaps?"

  "Now wait just a, minute!" Diana flared. "What are you implying?"

  "Nothing . . . nothing." Pamela glanced at John, as if to reinforce to the Fleet officer how quickly Diana's temper rose. "What I am stating, though, is that, although your idea of a spy may have been a good one, you failed in your responsibility to inform your superior officers of it."

  Diana started to speak, then thought better of it and closed her mouth. She was silent, smoldering beneath Pamela's calm scrutiny.

  John said nothing.

  Juliet Parrish was instructing new recruits in the care of their weapons when Caleb Taylor appeared in the doorway of the room. "Stanley Bernstein is here with a load of groceries," he said, with a hint of a smile.

  "So?" Julie asked, puzzled. "Do you need help carrying them in?"

  "Yeah, we really do," Caleb said. "He's got some real gourmet items—stuff we haven't seen in a long time."

  Juliet shrugged. "Okay."

  They found Stanley standing beside a small, hatchback compact. "Why didn't you bring the station wagon, Stanley?" Juliet asked. "I don't see any bundles—"

  "Oh, they're in here, all right." Stanley smiled, opening the hatch. "You like sardines?"

  She stared at the two filthy forms huddled in the compact, then whispered, "Mike . . ."

  Donovan sat up, grinning. "Hi, Doc," he said. Martin crawled around him, setting his feet on the grass in the backyard as though the feeling of terra firma—even if it wasn't his own firma—was very welcome.

  "Hello, Julie," he said. "We only met for a moment before, and you weren't in the best of condition. I'm Martin."

  Tears ran down Julie's cheeks, and Caleb and Stanley looked away, grinning happily. She gulped, wiping impatiently at her face with her sleeve. "Speaking of condition—what the hell happened to you two? I've met bums that looked—and smelled—better."

  "Long story," Donovan said, climbing out slowly. "Fun and games." Quickly Jul
ie darted to catch his arm, while Caleb assisted Martin. Once standing, Donovan looked around in surprise at the suburban town. "The new HQ? San Pedro?"

  "We figured you'd never think of it," Julie explained. "And it's not as if there were anyone left to mind."

  "Sean?"

  "He's down the street, at school. We set up classes to keep the kids occupied during the day. I'll send someone to get him."

  "Wait'll I get cleaned up and eat something," Donovan said, swaying slightly as he took a step. "I don't want to scare him, looking like this."

  "Come on, let's get you inside," Julie said, putting an arm around him. "We'll get you clean, then I'll give you a once-over."

  "I'll bet," said Caleb, sotto voce, but loud enough to carry.

  "You have a dirty mind, Caleb," Julie said, grinning. "This man needs rest."

  "Yeah," said Donovan plaintively, "you have no idea what I suffered to return to you."

  Inside the house, the word spread rapidly about Donovan's homecoming, and the four had to push their way through massed resistance members. Somebody had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and a party was rapidly building.

  Leaving Martin to the ministrations of Caleb and Willie, Julie led the stumbling Donovan into the other bathroom. "Wait a second," she said. "Don't move." In a moment she was back with two large plastic bags. "Stand on this one," she said, "the other is for those disgusting clothes."

  Impersonally, she began pulling the filthy rags off, stuffing them all—even the shoes—into the bag. "You look like you've been living hip-deep in garbage. Donovan!"

  "You're half right," he admitted. "Actually, it was garbage and sewage."

  "Yuck. And you're thin!" She stared, dismayed, at the visible lines of his ribs.

  "Yeah." He agreed, looking down at himself. "I look awful."

  In the shower, he revived enough to ask how things had gone for them during the several weeks of his absence. After Juliet had given him a quick summary of their military strikes, he asked about Robin.

  "I delivered Robin by caesarean section last week," Julie said hollowly. "Her water broke, but the labor didn't progress."

  The rings on the shower curtain rattled as Donovan turned off the water and thrust his head out. "The poor kid. Is she okay?"