V06 - Prisoners and Pawns Read online

  PRISONERS

  AND

  PAWNS

  Chapter 1

  The full moon shone down on the California desert, bathing the parched land in ghostly pale light. A coyote padded along softly, carefully, ears set as he listened for the movement of potential meals among the scrubby weeds and brush. He stopped, licked the fur of one front paw, then coughed out a short howl.

  A movement overhead caught his eye, and his nostrils twitched as he tried to catch a scent.

  But the Visitor skyfighter gave off only the faint whispering whoosh of its antigrav drive. The coyote yawned and resumed his search.

  The small alien spacecraft flew by on a search of its own. Its duckbilled nose cone reflected the moonlight. Inside, two Visitor pilots sat in the cockpit while a third officer manned the gun turret in the aft compartment. All wore red coverall uniforms with black stripes of rank.

  "Still no locator signal, sii;" said Lawrence, the younger officer up front, running a hand through his black hair. He had a thin, pleasant human face. But underneath his artificial skin, he was a dark, scaly-skinned reptile. He glanced at his mission commander; Captain Simon. Simon's human skin had been damaged in a terrorist attack the previous day, and he hadn't yet had time for cosmetic repairs. He'd simply peeled it off his upper body, giving him a strange hybrid appearance—human hands and arms but with his normal glistening scales visible on his torso and face.

  Seeing Simon without his humanlike casing made the younger officer long for home. It had been many months since the Visitors received Diana's signal and reinvaded Earth upon discovery that the red-dust biological toxin the humans had developed against them worked only sporadically, depending partly on climate and other factors.

  In his youthful exuberance, Lawrence had expected the reinvasion to proceed quickly. Without the toxin, how could these primitive humans fight the superior technology of the Visitors? But, as during the first occupation of the planet, humans proved they could fight against the odds. And now Lawrence found himself wondering from time to time, We've taken so many losses, maybe we should give up and return to the home world. Maybe we can't win.

  "If this rendezvous isn't carried out as planned," Simon said, "Lydia's position as security chief could be in serious jeopardy. We could all move up in rank."

  "Or we could all be court-martialed and executed, Simon."

  The alien commander flicked his tongue across his lipless mouth. "Your optimism is showing again, Lawrence."

  "With good reason. We both know how much Lydia and Diana hate each other. We both know that, given half a reason, one would willingly get rid of the othei; along with all her allies. We, unfortunately, are rather strongly identified with Lydia."

  "Not so unfortunate," Simon snapped, his voice throbbing as it rose defensively. "We're part of an elite force. Fleet Security gets special privileges others just dream about—or have you been spoiled by all that privilege?"

  The younger officer hunched his shoulders. "I've never even met Diana, but some officers who have swear she's on the edge of insanity. She's turned on her own officers before—they say she even murdered Supreme Commanders John and Pamela during the first occupation."

  "Murdering superior officers doesn't mean someone's insane. Not that you should get any ideas, Lawrence," Simon said warningly. "But that's how the Great Leader got to where he is. You know that's part of life in the fleet."

  "I'd prefer it if that weren't part of my life in the fleet— especially if I get caught in some crazy power play between Diana and Lydia."

  "Don't worry. Diana may be insane, but I don't think Lydia is. She won't start something unless she can finish it and come out on top," the captain said.

  Lawrence shook his head, his hair falling across his brow. "She may not have a choice if these prisoners don't get delivered to Diana as ordered."

  "You worry too much."

  Lawrence glanced at the chronometer on the console. "I have reason to. Lydia was supposed to give us the signal three minutes ago."

  Lawrence was about to continue when a red light winked insistently and an accompanying chime sounded.

  "Like I said, you worry too much," Simon repeated. "Now, triangulate on that and calculate landing coordinates."

  "Yes, sir;" the younger alien answered, his fingers punching up a geographic grid on the computer screen.

  Ham Tyler's finger pointed at the radar screen glowing green in the rear compartment of the four-wheel-drive Chevy Blazer

  "They've stopped circling," Tyler said. "I think they've found what they're looking for." He turned his wiry body slightly to face Mike Donovan, the TV news cameraman-turned-resistance-leader.

  "You could be wrong," Donovan said with a little more belligerence in his voice than he'd intended. He and Tyler had a knack for bringing out the worst in each other. It wasn't something Donovan liked, since they had to work closely as key members of the California-based band of resistance fighters. But their antagonism was a fact of life, and Donovan couldn't bring himself to back down in their continual game of push and shove. "You've been wrong before."

  "Not in your lifetime," Tyler answered evenly, leveling a cold gaze at Donovan. "Keep watching."

  They both followed the blip on the screen. What had appeared as a random search pattern seemed now to be a purposeful flight. Though he hated to do it, Donovan had to admit that the ex-CIA agent knew what he was talking about—this time. "Okay," Donovan said. He reached for the radio mike.

  "On scramble," Tyler said.

  Donovan glared at him. "I know, Tyler Back off. I've been fighting the Visitors as long as you have."

  "Sure, but I've been fighting, period, since you were a choirboy. I've gotten us equipment you've never even seen before, and I just want to make sure you use it right."

  Donovan considered a retort but held it in. "Prowler to Duster—come in, please," he said into the microphone.

  At an airstrip ten miles away, a radio crackled to life in the small shed that served as the tiny airport's office. Julie Parrish brushed a strand of blond hair off her face and picked up the headset. "Prowler; this is Duster Target located?"

  "Located. Once you're airborne, we'll guide you," Donovan said. "Be careful, Julie. Good luck."

  "We'll be fine," Julie said. "See you at the rendezvous."

  She turned off the transmit switch, then faced the rest of her mission team.

  "Why so serious, little girl?" asked Chris Faber, Ham Tyler's beefy friend and fellow ex-CIA operative.

  Julie managed a semismile—Chris always called her "little girl." Coming from someone else, she might have resented it. But she knew he meant it with brotherly affection—he was a gentle-voiced, affable southerner who seemed unafraid of being courtly and thoughtful. He rarely followed the macho posturing of his friend Tyler, but Julie had to remind herself that Chris was just as capable of killing as Tyler, and Chris could do it as dispassionately as turning off a light switch. Chris ducked his head slightly to gaze into her eyes.

  "Sorry," she said. "It's just that I don't like having to rely so much on information slipped to us by Visitor fifth columnists."

  Chris shrugged. "I know what you mean. But in this business, you take info anywhere and any way you can get it—and then you take it with a grain of salt."

  "You shouldn't worry, Julie," Willie said, his guileless face radiating its usual warmth and concern.

  Julie smiled at him. It was easy to forget that Willie was a Visitor himself. It had been well over a year since he'd stayed behind on Earth after the first occupation had ended, and Julie had become certain that even if Willie stopped wearing his homely human face, they would still love him, lizard or not.

  "Barry is a r
eliable fifth columnist," Willie continued reassuringly. "He gets information right from the—um— the horse's south."

  Chris and Julie tried not to laugh at this latest of the alien's malapropisms. "That's horse's mouth, Willie," Julie corrected gently.

  Willie's own mouth drooped in disappointment. "So long I am on your planet and I still can't speak your language."

  Julie gave him a quick hug. "You're doing fine, Willie. Sometimes I like your way of saying things better anyway."

  He flashed a lopsided smile. "You and Chris better go now. The ground forces will need your air cover."

  "If Barry's Visitor information is right," Julie said, worry creeping back into her voice.

  Willie raised his hand—with his thumb pointed down. Chris reached out, turned the alien's thumb up and matched the sign of optimism with one of his own.

  "As soon as we're gone, Willie, you get your lizard hide outa here," Chris said. "You did your job. If anything goes wrong, we want you back at Club Creole, safe and sound."

  Willie followed them out of the shed. The only light on the airstrip came from the blue-white moon. "I wish I could go with you," Willie said plaintively.

  "I wish you could too, but this isn't exactly an airliner we're flying," Julie said, gesturing toward the small crop-duster biplane waiting on the runway. "There's only room for two."

  Willie stood by and watched them climb into the old plane, Chris up front in the pilot's seat, Julie behind. When she was strapped in, wearing goggles and helmet, she lifted a shoulder-mounted missile launcher from the floor well and tested its feel and balance. "I sure hope I can shoot this thing straight," she said.

  Chris glanced back. "Piece of cake, honey. If you're anywhere near the target, these heat-seeking shells'll do all the' work. Besides, you've been able to handle every weapon you've picked up. You'll do fine."

  "Thanks, Chris. Some people go bowling at night-—we shoot down Visitor skyfighters."

  "You got it, ace," Chris laughed. Then he started the plane's engine. It rolled ahead and taxied down the bumpy runway.

  Willie watched as the biplane picked up speed, bounced down the strip, and finally lifted into the sky, rising sluggishly toward the moon. He whispered a prayer in his own language, then climbed into a four-wheel-drive wagon and drove away from the small airport, headed back to Los Angeles.

  Donovan and Tyler lay on their bellies in the sand, peering over a ridge into the desert valley below. About a dozen resistance fighters in camouflage outfits stood or crouched behind them. Some carried semi-automatic firearms, while others had captured Visitor laser weapons. They were as heavily armed as a small troop of foot soldiers could be, but at the moment their leaders were engaged in an argument and they were going nowhere.

  "I don't care what the scanners say," Donovan said. "You and I are looking at the same piece of real estate and neither of us is seeing Lydia and her prisoners."

  "They're there, Gooder. We picked up their locator beacon, so they gotta be there," Tyler countered.

  "Fine, but where!" Donovan snarled, tossing the binoculars back to Tyler

  * * *

  Lydia checked the chronometer on the vehicle's instrument panel. She sat alone at the controls in the windowless cockpit, glancing at the sensor's visual analogue screens that told her what was going on outside. So fai; no problems. One scanner indicated that Captain Simon's escort sky fighter was closing on their location. All was going according to plan, and Lydia allowed herself a satisfied half smile—she would get great pleasure out of completing this important mission for Diana, since she knew that Diana was poised anxiously, waiting for Lydia to make a major mistake.

  After Diana had escaped from the humans and returned to her Mother Ship, she'd declared herself Supreme Fleet Commander; stepping into a power vacuum left by her having murdered the only officers who'd outranked her. Ever since, life had been . . . interesting, to say the least. As Fleet Security Chief, Lydia possessed genuine power; second only to Diana's. To maintain their respective positions, each needed the other's tacit cooperation. But it had been made quite clear that should either falter enough to jeopardize her power, the other would have no qualms about giving the push needed to cause the final, irrevocable fall. Thus, since Diana was her nominal superior, Lydia had to be at her sharpest at all times.

  In some ways, Lydia thought with a sigh, her position was a thankless one, with no letup in pressure. On the one hand, her job as security chief was of vital importance to the success of the reinvasion of Earth, and Diana gave her assignments of the most critical nature. But every time Lydia completed another difficult task, it not only solidified her own position, it also made Diana look like an effective and daring field commander.

  But if Lydia failed, the failure would be her own. Therefore, she had decided she simply would not—could not—fail. Ever. Sooner or later; Diana would make a mistake that couldn't be pinned on her subordinates—oh, the supreme commander was very good at that—and Lydia would be in position to take advantage and take over.

  "Commander," a male Visitor voice said from the intercom speaker "is it time to surface yet?"

  "Yes, James. It's time. I'm coming back to see the prisoners."

  She swung out of the control seat and stood to her full height. She was tall, slim, and light in complexion and hair—sharp contrast to the dark good looks of her rival, Diana. At first Lydia had found these human appearances disconcerting, even having a couple of nightmares where she thought she was actually transformed into a human being, but she'd finally made the adjustment. Still, it had been a long time since she'd looked like herself, she thought wearily.

  The bulkhead hatchway slid open and Lydia stepped into the rear compartment of the vehicle. She leaned casually on the wall and looked at the trio of human prisoners sitting quietly inside their power-field cubicles.

  On her left was David Durning, the balding American. He was in his forties and completely nondescript looking. She'd never have guessed him to be a top secret agent. But that, perhaps, was what made him so effective at his work.

  In the center was Susan Coopersmith, a spectacularly lovely British spy. Diana might enjoy this human in more ways than one, Lydia thought distastefully. Diana's insatiable appetite for sex with humans of both genders made Lydia blanch. Torturing and eating a freshly killed human being was acceptable, but sexual contact with these creatures was something Lydia couldn't stomach. Oh, well, perhaps it'll be Diana's downfall someday.

  And, finally, the Japanese man, Kyoshi Maragato. Compact, bald headed, unemotional, and a deadly practitioner of hand-to-hand martial arts, as Lydia's security troops had discovered when they kidnapped Maragato in Tokyo. He'd killed two hulking Visitor agents before four more subdued him.

  Capturing these three—three of the most important human intelligence agents on the planet—hadn't been easy. There had been many trails to follow, many informants to pursue. At last the pieces had fallen together though the whole project wouldn't have been possible without the cooperation of human collaborators—traitors. What counted was final results, especially since the capture of selected key agents had been Lydia's idea in the first place. Diana had balked at the amount of energy and resources that would be required, but Lydia had convinced her that these specially trained intelligence operatives were the main liaison between governmental authorities and the underground. Where governments had been forced to cease their open resistance to the Visitors, they'd often managed to maintain channels of aid and armaments to small rebel groups. Capturing those secret agents would not only disrupt the channels, it would also enable the Visitors to tap the information they carried in their brains.

  "Very soon," Lydia said smoothly, "you'll be transferred to the Mother Ship and placed in Diana's custody. You know things that will be of great interest to us. You'll be questioned—"

  "You mean tortured," Susan Coopersmith said in an icy voice.

  Lydia smiled tolerantly. "You will reveal that information one way or an
other Whether you reveal it easily and cooperatively—or painfully—is up to you." She looked at her junior officer James, a boyish lieutenant with features that were at the same time darkly handsome and malevolent. "Engage engines, James."

  He nodded. "Yes, Commander." He reached for a set of toggle switches on the wall and a powerful throbbing shook the vehicle to life.

  With a disdainful last look at her prisoners, Lydia returned to the cockpit. What a crisply executed mission this would be. The humans had been brought here as planned, gathered together with a minimum of personnel because Lydia had to make up for the large number of Visitor agents initially needed to locate and capture the targets. Soon the humans would be transferred to the Mother Ship. Lydia's coup would be then completed— neatly, quietly, without attracting the attention of the local L.A.-area resistance.

  Donovan peered at the luminous numbers on his watch. He and Ham were still side by side on the edge of the desert ridge. Their impatient troops sat on the ground.

  "They're not out there," Donovan said flatly.

  Tyler continued looking through the binoculars. "They're out there, Gooder."

  "You are so goddamned stubborn. Why can't you just admit we were suckered, or Barry got the wrong information. Or maybe this whole thing was a decoy. 1 don't know—but I do know we're wasting our time. And even if they are here, I still don't see how a crop duster is going to take on a sky fighter."

  "The skyfighters are too fast to fight with something as slow as a biplane. I wouldn't want to try to outrun one, but those Visitor rocket sleds just can't maneuver well at under four hundred miles an hour"

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "I supervised some of the tests myself after the war ended. Trust me, Donovan."

  "As far as I can throw you." Donovan raised the binoculars again. "I'm telling you, they're not out there."

  Tyler leaned on his elbow. "They are—I'll bet on it."

  "Great," Donovan said sarcastically. "Let's bet. Where the hell are they—under the sand?"

  Donovan turned his back in frustration. Tyler took the binoculars from him and gazed out over the rugged terrain.