by Timothy Zahn
Hawking looked at Lathe. “Do we return the tapes?”
“No, we’d better get moving. Mordecai, did you pick up a hailer? Good—I don’t want to use Caine’s any more than necessary. We’ll leave by the front door; the induction field control’s probably there.”
They trooped down the hall together. As they entered the elevator, Caine sneaked a glance at Lathe. The old blackcollar’s expression—what Caine could see of it under the battle-hood and goggles—was not that of a man whose task is nearly done. Caine shivered, but kept his questions to himself. Whatever else Lathe had planned, he would learn about it soon enough.
The briefcase was right where Lathe had said he would leave it. Crouching in the relative darkness, Skyler quickly emptied it, keeping an eye on the street. Hopefully, the faint whine of a car he could hear approaching was evidence that Braune and Pittman had been successful. Even as he closed the briefcase the vehicle rounded the corner, turned down the street, and then U-turned to face the cul-de-sac’s entrance. Seconds later it was rolling again, with Skyler inside.
“Any trouble?” the blackcollar asked as he passed out knives, throwing stars, and short-range radio gear.
Woody Pittman, who was driving, shook his head. “None,” he said. “Braune had it unlocked in half a minute.”
Skyler nodded. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of taking two novice trainees on a raid into the collies’ stronghold—but as long as he had to do so, Pittman and Stef Braune were the best possible choices for the job. Pittman, especially: twenty-two years old, with five years of secret combat training under his belt, he had shed the rashness of youth and was beginning to develop the calculating mentality that made for a good fighter. Braune, three years younger, had the same characteristics at a more undeveloped stage. For the umpteenth time Skyler wished they’d had some of the Backlash drug when the planet went under. Without it none of Plinry’s youthful fighters would ever have a blackcollar’s super-fast reflexes. Still…Skyler studied Pittman’s face out of the corner of his eye. Alert, determined, with that trace of fear that made for caution. Backlash or no, the kid was going to be a good fighter someday.
Most of the lights that blazed from the Department of Planetary Security were on the first floor: the night shift of those guardians of Ryqril interests. The most dangerous place in the whole city for a blackcollar to be, but at least he’d have the use of his throwing knives and other weapons. With armed Security men going in and out at all hours, an induction field alarm was impractical. Lathe’s mission was potentially a lot riskier, and Skyler wondered briefly how his friend was doing.
Pittman stopped the car across from the Security building, and he and Skyler slid out opposite sides as Braune took the wheel and continued down the street. Pittman vanished into a shadowy doorway to stand guard as Skyler, loosening his knives in their forearm and belt sheathes, headed across the street.
The main doors were large and imposing and, providentially, inset with lots of windows. Standing off to one side, Skyler peered inside. A short, glassed-in foyer led directly into a larger room dominated by a reception desk. One Security man lounged at the desk, fiddling with a pocket knife; two others leaned against the wall facing him, apparently just chatting. The standees were armed; Skyler could assume the desk man was, too. First target would be the latter, the only one within reach of the various alarm buttons. The others would have to be taken before they could draw. Nunchaku in his left hand, knife in his right, Skyler pulled open the outer door, crossed the foyer in two strides, and emerged into the reception area.
They had turned when he opened the outer door, but astonishment had frozen their muscle’s—frozen them long enough, in fact, that Skyler decided to risk an act of mercy. “All right; no one move,” he ordered in his most authoritative voice…and the spell holding them vanished like a soap bubble.
The desk man lunged toward his control buttons and was knocked backward by the impact of Skyler’s knife hilt between his eyes. The other two, still standing together like amateurs, were clawing at their holsters as the nunchaku spun through the air to catch them both across the forehead. One went down instantly; the other, dazed, nevertheless kept his feet until Skyler finished the job with a backfist punch behind the ear.
Ears cocked for sounds of an alarm, Skyler retrieved his weapons, checking the fallen guards as he did so. Two of them would be out for the duration of his stay. The third—the desk man—was out forever.
Skyler gazed at the dead man for a moment, his stomach tightening painfully. It had been a long time since he’d had to kill anyone.…Sheathing his knife almost viciously, he turned to the room directory on the desk.
The list was short and Skyler found the Hostage Holding Room without trouble. It was off to his left, through double doors and down the hall. Nunchaku at the ready, he crossed the reception area, opened one of the doors a crack and slid through.
An open door twenty meters ahead of him spilled light and cheerful conversation into the hall. The holding room, undoubtedly; only hostages would be that noisy. Skyler glided forward, conscious of the ironic twist this particular collie gambit had taken. Shortly after conquering Plinry the occupying Ryqril had required civic leaders to be held as hostages, on a rotating schedule, to insure cooperation from the populace. That order had never been revoked, but in the years following the blackcollar surrender the perception of it had shifted. It was now considered a mark of status to be chosen for one of the four-day stints as hostage—a mark of success, as it were. Luxuries had been added to the holding room, and the hostages treated their stay like the expense-paid vacation it essentially was. In many ways the ten men and women in there were as guilty of collaboration with the enemy as were the loyalty-conditioned collies, and it was a little galling to Skyler to have to get them out. But they were hostages—and when the balloon went up, their private club would turn nasty very quickly.
He was at the open door now and, without hesitation, strode in. Directly in front of him were the hostages, as yet oblivious to his presence. Flanking the doorway were two Security men: one lounging against the wall; the other, a youngster, standing at a conscientious parade rest. Skyler took the kid first, with a backfist to the solar plexus and another to the side of the neck. The older guard, grabbing for his gun, went down with a jab in the stomach and two head punches for his trouble.
The room had gone deathly still by the time Skyler looked up from the unconscious Security men. The hostages stared at him with wide eyes, their cards, drinks, and conversations forgotten. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Skyler began—and suddenly the tingler on his right wrist came to life, tapping dots and dashes into two sections of skin. In the economical blackcollar combat code the message took only twelve letters—but its meaning was a heart-stopping mouthful! Ryq coming in the main entrance—will attack—request aid.
Skyler was out the door and running down the hall almost before the message ended, but even so he knew he would be too late to get there first. A muffled thud just as he reached the double doors confirmed that fear, and he flung open the door to find the battle already joined.
The Ryq, looking from the rear like a tall upright Doberman covered with brown rubber, was striding across the reception area, his short sword slashing viciously at Woody Pittman. The trainee was doing his best to dodge the blows or to deflect them with his—now—badly splintered nunchaku, but he was giving ground rapidly and within seconds would have his back to the wall. Shifting his nunchaku to his left hand, Skyler snatched a knife from his belt, wondering briefly at his chances of missing the rapidly moving Ryq and striking Pittman instead. But there was no choice. Raising the knife, he took aim—and Pittman stumbled and fell on his back. With a thin wail of triumph, the Ryq raised his sword high.
And Skyler’s knife flashed across the room, burying itself in the alien’s back.
The Ryq jerked as if with an electric shock, his sword clattering harmlessly to the floor behind him. Some trick of balance and locked joints k
ept him upright long enough for Skyler to put two more knives into the tough hide. Then, almost gracefully, he toppled over.
Pittman was getting to his feet as Skyler reached him. “You okay?” the blackcollar rumbled, noticing for the first time the handful of bloodstained cuts in the youth’s non-flexarmor sleeves and gloves.
“Yeah. His laser’s over by the desk.”
“Your sneak attack was a bit off-center, huh? Well, at least you disarmed him. Get the gun; I’ll be back in a minute.”
Retrieving his knives, Skyler hurried back to the holding room. The hostages were still seated where he had left them, but they’d gotten over their surprise, and a burly man at a gaming table spoke up indignantly as Skyler entered. “Look here, you—what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting you out,” Skyler told him. “We’re about to launch an attack on the Ryqril.”
The burly man’s face turned pasty white. “Are you insane?” he gasped. “You’ll kill us all! Haven’t you fools learned yet that you can’t fight the Ryqril?”
Skyler ignored him. “On your feet, everyone. Let’s go.”
“No!” The burly man’s hand came up from under the table, clutching one of the fallen guards’ lasers. “Call it off!”
Skyler reacted instantly, leaping to his left faster than the other’s weapon could track. His knife was in the air before he landed, and an instant later the laser was flying across the room as its erstwhile owner hugged his hand where the hilt had most likely broken a bone or two.
“I said let’s go, damn it,” Skyler said to the group, putting steel into his voice.
Moving with terrified jerkiness, the hostages scrambled to their feet. Feeling like a glorified sheepdog, Skyler herded them down the hallway to the reception area.
Pittman was crouched by the desk, watching the front door. “Braune just pulled up with a van,” he reported.
“Good. I’ll see them off, then we’ll follow in the other car.
“But we can’t leave the Hub,” one of the hostages objected mechanically, her horrified eyes glued to the dead Ryq. “The gate guards—”
“Will be out of the way soon,” Skyler told her. “Looks clear—let’s go.”
Braune had clearly lifted the van from Security’s own parking area; though unmarked, its sealed-off driver’s section was designed with prisoner transport in mind. Skyler got the hostages aboard, gave Braune some final instructions, and headed down the street to their original vehicle as the van rolled off toward the Hub’s south gate.
Pittman was climbing in the driver’s side when Skyler reached the car. “Shove over, Pittman; I’m driving.”
“I can drive, sir.”
“Tricky to do while you’re bandaging your own hands, isn’t it? Move over.”
The youth complied, and Skyler soon had them heading south. He glanced occasionally at Pittman as he drove, noted that the trainee was having a bit of trouble manipulating his medkit’s bandages. It didn’t matter how realistic the training simulations were, Skyler told himself silently—genuine combat always was different. “You did a good job tonight,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I missed the Ryq’s head with my nunchaku.”
“Forget it. It’s hard to believe how fast they can move.” He paused. “By the way, that was a damn fool stunt you pulled, faking that fall. By all rights you should’ve died there.”
Pittman shrugged. “I saw you come in with your knife ready. It seemed to me you’d have a better target if I could get the Ryq to stand still a second. I figured it was worth the risk.”
“And besides, you didn’t want to be in my line of fire?”
“I thought you might be worried about hitting me.”
“I appreciate your consideration. But don’t ever do that again. Duck, go left or right, jump over the son of a cockroach if you have to, but never go down on your back in front of a Ryq. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Skyler clapped the boy on the shoulder. “After all,” he said in a milder tone, “I’d hate to lose you now after all those hours of training.”
Under his hand, he felt some of the tension go out of Pittman’s muscles. “Yes, sir. I’ll try to watch out for your investment.”
In the darkness, Skyler smiled to himself. Yes, this kid was for sure going to be one hell of a fighter someday.
The insistent buzz of his bedside phone dragged Prefect Galway from a deep sleep. Reaching over, he turned off the visual and picked up the handset. “Galway,” he yawned.
“Prefect, this is Sergeant Grazian, monitoring Alain Rienzi. Sorry to wake you, but I just noticed something that might be important.”
“Go ahead,” Galway said, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, sir, Rienzi left his pills at the lodge and had to be driven back up there to get them. I’ve got the East Gate reports on his departure and arrival and—well, I’m puzzled by the extra briefcase he came back with.”
Galway came wide awake. “An extra briefcase? Was it searched?”
“No, sir. And something else: Rienzi came through the East Gate almost fifty minutes ago, but there’s no report of him arriving at his hotel. And nothing’s coming in over the bugs in his clothing except what sounds like street noises.”
“Call the main desk and have him pull autocab records for the last hour.”
“Yes, sir.” A long pause. “That’s funny. No one’s answering.”
An unnamed fear curled itself onto the back of Galway’s neck. “Go out there and find out what’s wrong. Take a couple of men with you.”
“Sir, he’s probably just—”
“Do it, Sergeant. Call me right back—I’ll be getting dressed.”
He hung up and rolled out of bed, thankful that Margarite was a sound sleeper. His clothes hung neatly on a nearby chair, and he got dressed as fast as he could. He was just putting on his boots when Grazian called back with the news. “Beta Alert,” the prefect ordered. “Get extra men to the gates; I want the Hub sealed off. See if they’ve done anything else in the building—” a memory clicked with a hunch—“and get some men to the Records Building right away.”
The other acknowledged and signed off. Scooping up his gunbelt, Galway fastened it securely around his waist. It had finally come, he thought grimly, checking his laser’s power level: the explosion he’d feared for so many years had finally started.
With one final look at his sleeping wife, he hurried from the apartment.
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS TIME.
The music in the Apex Club had reached a thundering climax; the echoes of it still reverberated through the room. Together, the music, lights, and alcohol had turned the crowd into a seething cauldron of anger and frustration. The teen-agers were ready to explode.
And the necessary catalyst was also ready. From the other side of the stage Denis Henrikson was looking across at Durbin, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Durbin nodded agreement. Smiling grimly, Henrikson got to his feet and stepped onto the stage, picking up a mike. For his part, Durbin pushed his chair back and prepared for action.
“Friends!” Henrikson’s amplified voice boomed into the room, and a few of the teen-agers paused in their conversations to look back at the stage. “What are we sitting here for? What are we letting the damn collies do this to us for? Don’t we care any more?”
More and more heads were turning, and the buzz of conversation was fading as Henrikson launched into a scathing indictment of the government. It wasn’t so much the words themselves, Durbin knew—everyone had heard all this before—but the way Henrikson said them. He had that undefinable aura of authority, that charisma that made for a born leader. To his natural abilities had been added three years of secret training in psychology and sociology, until Henrikson had become a master manipulator of human emotion.
And the crowd was responding. The background noise was growing again—but it was no longer composed of frustrated conversation. The sounds were an
imalistic, full of hate and violence. In one corner a chant had started: “Burn it down! Burn it down! Burn it down!” More and more people took it up, and within seconds the building was shaking with the angry stamping of feet.
At the table in front of Durbin’s a dark-haired youth reached furtively into his pocket. Unnoticed by the mesmerized chanters around him, Durbin moved up behind him; and as the teen-ager’s hand emerged, Durbin struck the back of his neck a short, carefully placed blow. The youth sprawled unconscious across the table, and Durbin stooped to retrieve the object the other had dropped. It was a tiny communicator.
Durbin replaced it in the youth’s pocket, smiling in satisfaction. He’d long suspected this one of being a Security informer—it was the main reason he’d chosen the table he’d been sitting at. The collies couldn’t be allowed even a hint of what was about to happen.
Suddenly, without warning, the crowd was on the move, streaming past Durbin toward a side exit like a gale-force wind. Jumping to the lee side of a table, he looked over in time to see Henrikson leave the building at the head of his mob. Joining the flow, Durbin moved toward the exit, realizing he’d been concentrating so hard on the collie stooge that he’d missed the final punch of Henrikson’s speech. That was a shame; he’d wanted to hear it.
Outside, the mob made a sharp right turn. Ahead, two blocks away, loomed the Hub’s south gate. Running along the crowd’s edge, Durbin worked his way up to the middle of the group, where he’d be able to function as secondary leader if necessary.
“Halt!” a voice boomed from in front of them—one of the gate guards with an amp. “You are ordered to disperse.”
In answer, Henrikson half turned, roared something Durbin didn’t catch, and doubled his speed. A flash of light lanced out from each of the outside guards, slashing across the front rank. The weapons were apparently set low—to burn instead of kill—and for a second the crowd faltered as screams of pain mixed with the rage. But Henrikson didn’t even slow down. His clear voice called and the mob surged forward once again. Ahead, Durbin could see both guards resetting their lasers even as they began to retreat. The gate was opening behind them as they raised their weapons for a second shot—a killing one, probably, which even Henrikson’s hidden flexarmor shirt might not be able to stop.
