by Timothy Zahn
“Why? Because they aren’t as phlegmatic toward the Ryqril as you are?”
Lathe declined to take offense. “A good fighting spirit is fine. But so far they haven’t shown anything but spirit. Tell me, what’s your opinion of Lianna Rhodes?”
Caine blinked. “Why, I…in what way?”
“How do you think she would do under pressure, for instance? More importantly, what are the chances she’s a Security spy?”
Caine frowned. “I don’t think she’s a spy,” he said slowly. “That’s only gut instinct, of course. She said she was leaving Radix soon, though, and I can’t see a spy doing something like that.”
Lathe nodded; Caine’s information and instincts meshed with his own. “You think she could face down a group of collies?”
Surprisingly, Caine smiled. “She sure doesn’t wilt in front of us.” The smile faded into curiosity. “Why all the questions?”
“I want her to help us get into Cerbe Prison.” Lathe told him.
Caine’s expression hardly changed. “I won’t waste my breath telling you you’re crazy,” the younger man said calmly. “Do I get to know anything about this one in advance?”
Lathe hesitated, but only, for a second. He’d been cutting Caine out of a lot lately, and the other was clearly beginning to resent it. Telling Caine this part of the plan would be safe enough…and it might help divert his mind from Dodds for a while. “Sure,” he said, glancing at the quietly humming bug stomper standing sentinel in the middle of the room. “Let’s go sit by the stomper and I’ll tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER 21
THE STORM CLOUDS HAD been rolling in from the north for half an hour, replacing the already overcast night sky. Occasional flickers of lightning lit up the landscape, emphasizing the implicit promise of a heavy rain. At the car’s wheel, Dael Valentine risked a quick glance behind him. “I told you this would happen,” he said. “Driving in convoy at night’s just plain stupid.”
“Just relax,” Skyler advised him from the back seat. “They have maps, and we know they got out of Calarand all right. Maybe they decided to take a different route.”
“ ‘Maybe’?” Valentine snorted. “In other words, they did. And naturally you didn’t bother to tell me.”
“You were having so much fun complaining about their incompetence it seemed a shame to enlighten you,” Novak, next to Valentine, said tartly.
Valentine didn’t reply. Novak was overstating the case a bit, in Skyler’s opinion, but not by much. The Argentian had done a lot of bitching during the trip, almost as if he considered a chip on his shoulder to be standard equipment. Skyler had run into that kind before, back on Plinry, and considered the type to be a royal pain in the butt. They were dangerous to be around, too, usually getting themselves killed doing something stupid.
In the front seat a tiny penlight flicked on briefly as Novak checked his map. “Shouldn’t we be seeing Millaire by now?” the black man asked.
“It’s in a wide valley past these hills,” Valentine said, pointing to the shadowy ridge that the car was approaching. “You’ll see it in five minutes.”
Novak grunted and fell silent. Skyler took a moment to look back along the road, and to study the territory on either side. Only occasional lights could be seen, most of them far back from the road. Not surprising, considering it was way past midnight and all good Argentians were asleep in their beds. Still, the darkness and lack of other traffic made the blackcollar uncomfortable. He’d learned long ago to dislike being conspicuous.
The car topped the ridge—and suddenly Millaire was in front of them, spreading across the valley like a two-dimensional star cluster. “Quite a town,” Novak commented. “How’s it compare to Calarand?”
“Larger in area; smaller in population,” Valentine said. Half of Millaire’s lights disappeared as they curved behind a bill, reappearing a moment later.
“Find a place where you can pull over,” Skyler spoke up suddenly. “I want a clear view of the city.”
“Why?” Valentine asked. “We’re getting in late enough as it is.”
“Just do it.” Skyler’s danger sense was tingling, and he was in no mood to argue.
“Yes, sir.” Valentine ran the car onto the shoulder, raising clouds of dust as they bounced to a halt.
“Novak, give me that map,” Skyler said, frowning out at Millaire. Novak handed over both the map and his penlight, and Skyler took a moment to refold the paper to the large-scale map of the city. “Valentine, show me again exactly where Radix HQ is,” he ordered, cupping the penlight to block all but a faint glow.
The Argentian reached back over the seat. “It’s right here,” he said, tapping a spot a kilometer from the center of town. “Why?”
Skyler studied the map another moment, then flipped off the light. “You see it, Novak?”
“Yeah,” the other said slowly. “I do now.”
“What?” Valentine asked suspiciously, peering out the window.
“You see that patch of darkness, next to the big white building?” Skyler pointed it out. “Radix HQ is inside it.”
Valentine shrugged. “So? Probably just a power substation crash.”
“Maybe. But doesn’t it strike you as odd that there should just happen to be an outage now, and at the same place Jensen happens to be?”
“Coincidence,” Valentine growled. But he didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Possibly. I doubt it.” Skyler handed the map and light back to Novak. “Let’s go. We’re under battle conditions now—you understand, Valentine?”
“Perfectly, sir,” the Argentian said grimly. The car was already back on the road and picking up speed.
Opening the front of his coat, Skyler pulled his flexarmor gloves and battle-hood from beneath his belt and began checking his weapons. In the front seat, he could see movements that indicated Novak was doing likewise.
Outside, it was beginning to rain.
“Your rads won’t be here for at least another hour,” Uri Greenstein said, handing Jensen one of the two steaming mugs he’d just poured and sitting down behind his plain metal desk. “You’re welcome to a bed until then if you’d like to rest.”
“Thanks, but no,” Jensen said, sipping cautiously. It was some sort of herbal coffee, delicately seasoned. “I napped some in the car. All I really needed was a shower and a hot meal, and your people have been most generous in providing those.”
Greenstein shrugged, and Jensen let his eyes drift around the room. The coffee and automatic blend-maker seemed to be Greenstein’s only luxuries; the rest of the fifth-floor office was Spartan in the extreme, from the simple furniture to the plain Venetian blind covering the window. He looked back at Greenstein, to find the other’s gaze on him. “I take it, Mr. Greenstein,” he said, “that you had some reason for asking me up here? Besides the coffee, of course, which is excellent.”
The Radix leader smiled thinly. “Not really, Commando. Frankly, I just wanted to see what you were like.”
Jensen shrugged. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Not at all. Intrigued is more like it.” Greenstein waved toward the west. “You escaped a crashing spaceship, evaded a massive manhunt for eight days, apparently killed quite a few heavily armed Security men—and yet you don’t have a trace of the usual blackcollar bluster.”
“Well, you know how jungle animals calm down after they’re fed.”
“You’re joking. I’m not.”
“I know.” Jensen sobered, sipped again from his mug. “We all started with a little of that, I suppose—being a freshly graduated blackcollar is heady stuff. I think most of us lost our conceit after our first few weeks of actual warfare. When enough of your comrades have been killed beside you the word ‘elite’ pretty well loses all meaning.”
Greenstein nodded heavily. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve seen a fair number of friends die like that.” He fixed Jensen with a hard eye. “And I don’t want to add to that list because of you and
your rads.”
Jensen understood. “I expect most of Security’s fire will be directed at us alone.”
“All right.” Greenstein stood up. “Understand, please, that I have nothing against all of you personally. It’s just that I’ve seen too many battles where the blackcollars have survived and a lot of other people haven’t.”
“It’s not always like that,” Jensen said, also rising, “but we’ll do our best to get out of your way quickly.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a box on Greenstein’s desk suddenly buzzed and a red light flicked on. “What’s that?” Jensen asked.
Greenstein frowned slightly. “Someone coming in through the west—”
Abruptly, five more lights came on; simultaneously, the whole building shook with a muffled roar beneath them. “Sonic grenade!” Jensen snapped, already halfway into his flexarmor gloves.
Greenstein didn’t hesitate. Yanking open a drawer, he scooped out a bulky gas mask and a dart pistol and ran to the door. He opened it, looked out quickly, and disappeared. Jensen, in full battle gear now with his pack back on his shoulders, was right behind him.
The hall was only dimly lit. Ahead of Greenstein Jensen could see two figures disappearing through what appeared to be a hidden door; behind the blackcollar three or four others were stumbling out of other rooms. “Where are we going?” Jensen asked Greenstein.
“We’re being raided,” the other answered tightly, already beginning to breathe heavily through his mask. “We’ll help with the fighting and then make for the tunnels.”
“Hold it. How secure is this exit?”
He was too late; Greenstein was already through the door and clattering down a spiral stairway. Gritting his teeth, the blackcollar followed.
They didn’t get far, Greenstein was barely half a flight down when he suddenly jerked back, his gun arm waving wildly as he spun and collapsed against the railing. Below him on the stairs three or four body-armored figures could be seen coming up.
Jensen reacted instantly, reversing direction and heading back to the floor they’d just left. Two bursts of darts slapped at his legs before he made it through the door—and as he emerged into the hall another burst caught him full in the chest. He leaped to one side, nunchaku swinging, and just barely managed to deflect the flail in time to keep from breaking Cutter Waldemar’s skull.
“Jensen!” the plump man exclaimed, hastily lowering his pistol. “I’m sorry; I thought you were a quizler.”
“You’re not far wrong—they’re right behind me. Get back.”
Waldemar nodded and moved off down the hall. Jensen stepped to one side of the hidden door and had just raised his nunchaku when the first of the invaders came charging through.
Jensen didn’t even bother with the nunchaku, but simply swept the Security man’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. The second man, too close on his partner’s heels, fought to keep his feet under him; Jensen’s nunchaku smashing into his neck ended the battle. The third man never made it into the hall as Jensen stepped into the doorway and threw a kick to his torso that sent him reeling back into at least one more invader. The sounds of bodies crashing down the stairs were cut off as Jensen slammed the door shut.
“What do we do now?” Waldermar asked tensely, coming up behind him.
“We get the hell out of here,” Jensen told him. “Have you been here often enough to know how to get out?”
“I know the standard boltholes,” the other said, “But this stairway was one of them.”
“Then we can forget the others. How tall is this building?”
“Five floors; nothing above us but the roof. I think this stairway goes all the way up.”
“It does. First, though….” Jensen glanced around, located an electrical outlet, then turned back to the fallen Security men. In addition to dart guns and assorted grenades, they were carrying the familiar snub-nosed laser rifles. Scooping one up, the blackcollar flicked it to medium power and fired a shot into the outlet. There was a blue-white flash, and the hallway abruptly went dark.
“That may slow them down,” Jensen explained, cracking the stairway door. Nothing was audible; grabbing Waldemar’s arm, he guided the Argentian onto the stairs. “They’ll have to use infrareds or light-amps this way—and they’ll wonder what we’re up to. Get moving; I’ll stay behind you in case someone below us starts shooting.”
They reached the top of the stairs without incident. There, Jensen squeezed past the Argentian and stepped cautiously out. The stairwall exit was as carefully disguised as the rest of it, opening through the back of the shed housing the building’s regular stairwell door. For a wonder Security had missed a bet; the roof was deserted.
“Now what?” Waldemar asked, fingering his pistol nervously.
“Watch the stairs while I check out the streets.”
The survey was a quick one; Millaire’s excellent streetlight system showed all too clearly the forces skulking in the alleys and doorways around the Radix building. Jensen checked all four sides and then trotted back to the center of the roof, where Waldemar was gesturing frantically to him.
“People moving on the stairs,” he hissed as the blackcollar slid his pack off and rummaged around inside it. “They’ll be here any minute!”
“Here.” Jensen handed him the pack, the coil of rope he’d withdrawn from it, and the laser rifle he was still carrying. “Get over to the edge—that side—but stay low. The ground is swarming with collies, and I don’t want you spotted.”
Waldemar nodded and headed away in a crouching run. Unlimbering his nunchaku and checking his shuriken pouch, Jensen stepped to the main stairwell door and put his ear to the panel. There were footsteps coming, all right; five to ten pairs of them, probably. Stepping to one side, Jensen waited for them to emerge.
They had, at any rate, learned caution. There was no mad charge onto the roof; instead, the door was kicked open and a grenade tossed out.
Jensen reacted instantly, throwing himself into a flat dive that took him to the side of the shed, rolling as noiselessly as possible. The blast was a small one, and he was back up on one knee by the time the Security men charged out onto the roof. There were seven of them in all, from the sound; four breaking to Jensen’s side of the shed, the others going the opposite direction.
It was shooting the proverbial swamp lizard in an ice pit. At such close range Jensen’s shuriken hit all four with pinpoint accuracy, sliding between helmet and torso armor plates. Jensen didn’t waft to see the invaders collapse, but jumped to his feet and slipped around the back of the shed. The Security men on that side of the roof had heard the sounds of Jensen’s attack and were heading back to investigate. All three spotted Jensen; one even got a wild shot off before they died. From the sprawled bodies Jensen snatched eight grenades and threw two down each bf the two stairways. Slamming the doors on the explosions, he hurried back to the edge of the roof.
Waldemar was crouched by the low parapet, his laser held ready, a stunned look on his face. “Give me the laser,” Jensen whispered, “and make a slipknot in that rope.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a sudden hail of darts clattered into the parapet from below. The sound broke Waldemar’s awe-struck trance; crouching lower, he shoved the rifle into Jensen’s hands and got busy with the rope.
Smiling to himself at the other’s reaction, Jensen rolled along the roof to a new spot and hooked an eye over the parapet. More darts hissed through the air and ricocheted from his battle-hood; ignoring them, he flipped the laser to full antiarmor and fired a long burst into the base of the nearest streetlight. Through the whine of darts he could hear the crackle of unevenly heated metal.
And suddenly, the lights all went out.
Lowering the laser, Jensen looked around him. A solid twenty-or thirty-block region had been blacked out, and the nearest light was a good two blocks away. Not perfect, but there were ways of setting up power substations that wouldn’t have
let him get even this much.
“Did you do that?” Waldemar whispered as Jensen rejoined him.
“Yes. Is the rope ready?”
The Argentian pressed it into his hands, and Jensen confirmed by touch that the knot was properly done. “Good. When I give the word toss one of those grenades off the roof.”
Rising to a crouch, Jensen took the loop in one hand, making sure the rope’s other end was securely held under one foot. His eyes were adjusting to the faint wash of light from elsewhere in the city, and he’d mentally fixed his target’s location before shooting out the lights, anyway. Twirling the loop, he aimed…. “Now!” he stage-whispered to Waldemar, and threw the rope.
Jensen had hated lasso practice back in his trainee days. It had been taught by plainsriders from Hedgehog, and being inferior in anything to a Hoggy had been particularly galling. But despite that—or perhaps because of it—he’d become the best roper in his unit; and as Waldemar’s grenade flashed, momentarily knocking out all nearby light-amps, he saw his loop land neatly over the sturdy-looking chimney vent sticking up from the building across the street.
“Okay,” he whispered, pulling in the slack, “we’ve got a bridge down to that four-floor place. I’ll tie this end down and well get going.” From his pack he produced a wristband attached to a small pulley. “Put this on your left wrist, pulley side up,” he ordered, and headed back to the stairway shed with the coil of rope.
No sounds were audible from either stairway as Jensen swiftly lashed the rope to a vertical support at one of the main stairwell’s inner corners. That was ominous; either the Radix people were putting up a better fight than Security had expected or else something special was being planned for those on the roof. Tightening the rope, he gave the sky a quick scan and hurried back to the parapet.
Waldemar was kneeling tensely by the low wall when Jensen returned. “Any reaction from below?” the blackcollar asked as he checked the wristband and locked the pulley over the line.
Waldemar’s silhouette shook its head. “But they’ve got to have seen the rope,” he hissed.
