The Judas Solution

by Timothy Zahn

  "Just Toby."

  "Look—"

  He broke off at a gesture from Smith. "What do you do up here, Mr. Toby?" the older man asked in a more reasonable tone.

  Foxleigh shrugged. "I live," he said. "Pretty much the same thing you do in the city."

  "I meant, how do you survive?" Smith said. "Food and clothing and all?"

  "There's plenty of game about," Foxleigh said. "I do some hunting and trapping, and I've got a small vegetable plot around the side of the cliff face over there."

  "And the people in Shelter Valley help you out, too, I suppose?"

  Foxleigh grimaced. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Some of them. Only when I can't do for myself."

  "And that's not very often, I imagine," Smith said, glancing around the cabin. "You seem the self-sufficient sort. Tell me, how long have you been up here?"

  Foxleigh shrugged as casually as he could. Here was where things were going to get dicey. "Don't remember exactly," he said vaguely.

  "Since before the war?"

  "Some, I guess," Foxleigh conceded.

  "And you were, what, sixty or so when it began?" Smith persisted.

  It would have been nice to be able to bring that number down to somewhere around thirty, Foxleigh knew. It would line up with his actual age and eliminate a lot of potentially unpleasant questions. Unfortunately, there were people in Shelter Valley who might remember the real Toby being in his upper fifties when he turned his back on humanity and moved out on them. "Closer to fifty," he said, fudging the number as far as he could.

  "Which would make you about eighty years old," Smith concluded, peering closely at Foxleigh's face. "You're in mighty good shape for a man that age. Especially given the kind of life you lead."

  "Life like this keeps a man healthy," Foxleigh countered. "You soft city folk ought to try it sometime." He lifted his eyebrows at Griffs. "Especially you."

  Griffs bristled, but another gesture from Smith kept him quiet. "I'm sure it does," Smith said. "But it doesn't keep you that healthy." His eyes hardened. "You've been getting Idunine, haven't you?"

  That was, of course, the obvious first assumption for them to make. Trouble was, it had the potential to get all of Shelter Valley into nearly as much trouble as the truth would. "What if I have?" Foxleigh growled. "Is that a crime?"

  Smith shrugged. "Depends on how you've been getting it."

  Foxleigh lowered his eyes. "Don't want to get anyone in trouble," he muttered.

  "You won't," Smith assured him.

  Foxleigh knew how much that promise was worth. But he had little choice in the matter. "It was the doc in town," he admitted. "Doc Adamson. He gave me a little once when my leg was acting up so badly I couldn't walk."

  "When was that?"

  "Ten years ago," Foxleigh said grudgingly. "Maybe twelve."

  "Did it work?"

  "Good enough," Foxleigh said, watching the other's face out of the corner of his down-turned eyes. So far he seemed to be buying it. "I still have some trouble, especially in the cold. But at least I can get by."

  "So what other illegal drugs does Doc Adamson have?" Griffs asked.

  "Who says Idunine is illegal?" Foxleigh demanded, glaring up at him. "Used to be you could get it all the time before the war."

  "Before the war," Griffs repeated tersely. "This is after the war, and Idunine is strongly regulated. Somehow, I don't see a backwoods witch doctor having legal access to it."

  "Maybe he had some left over from before," Foxleigh said, looking accusingly at Smith. "You said he wouldn't get in trouble."

  "If he was just using up an old supply, he won't," Smith assured him. "But if he's black-marketing it ... well, we'll see."

  Foxleigh grimaced. That was, in fact, the story he and Adamson had worked out all those years ago in case someone started asking these very questions. He just hoped the doc hadn't forgotten the details. "So is that it?" he muttered.

  "Just about," Smith said. "You said you did some hunting. That mean you have a gun?"

  "No, I brain the deer with rocks," Foxleigh bit out sarcastically. "Of course I have a gun. It's over there beside the bed."

  "Guns are regulated, too, of course," Smith pointed out as Griffs strode over for a look.

  "Yeah, why am I not surprised?" Foxleigh said with a sniff, watching Griffs closely as he took the old scattergun off the rack. "Careful with it—careful."

  "He is," Smith said soothingly. "Well?"

  "It's within the limits," Griffs said, a note of disappointment in his voice. Clearly, he'd been hoping he could find an excuse to confiscate it. Setting it back into its rack, he pulled up the thin mattress and looked beneath it. "Any other weapons?"

  "Just the knife, and it's mostly for eating with," Foxleigh said. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm looking around," Griffs said, dropping the mattress and running his hands through the books and other odds and ends in the crate that served as a nightstand. "That all right with you?"

  "Not really, no," Foxleigh said, looking back at Smith. "If he wrecks anything, it's coming out of his hide."

  "He'll be careful," Smith said, his voice suddenly a little too casual. "You have any visitors up here recently?"

  Foxleigh felt his stomach tighten. "Not unless the doc's visit way back when counts as recently," he said. "Why?"

  "The thermal reading we took from the town a little while ago seemed too high for one man," Smith said. "You have anything you'd like to tell us?"

  "Aside from go to hell?" Foxleigh countered. "This is the cabin. You see anyone else here?"

  "Don't get smart," Griffs warned as he sifted gingerly through the wood bin. "If you're covering for someone, you're going to be in serious trouble."

  Foxleigh snorted. "I stopped covering for anyone forty years ago," he said. "You were probably just reading my stove—you can see for yourself it's still hot. That, or your equipment's no damn good."

  "We'll have it checked out," Smith said. "Griffs?"

  "Seems clean," Griffs said, standing in the middle of the room for one final look. His eyes lingered a moment on the sink and toilet area, and Foxleigh held his breath. But the young Security man turned away without comment and nodded to his partner. "Let's get out of this pig hole."

  "Good-bye, Mr. Toby," Smith said, giving Foxleigh an almost friendly smile as they left.

  Foxleigh watched through the window as the two men picked their way down the path back toward town, his stomach settling into a hard knot. Smith's smile had been almost friendly, all right. But Foxleigh wasn't fooled, any more than Smith had been fooled by his hot-stove story. A good IR sensor could tell the difference between a stove and a human body, and even if the analyzers on their Birren-7 patrol boat weren't good enough to sort that out the ones in Athena certainly were.

  And if he'd been reading Smith's face right, running the track through those analyzers was the first thing he would do when he got back to base.

  Half an hour later, he heard the Birren-7 lift back into the sky ... and with that, the clock was now counting down. Still, he couldn't simply haul the two blackcollars back up. Not yet. Smith might have been suspicious enough to leave an observer or two behind.

  Maybe there was a way to find out about that. Reaching to the top of the window, he pulled down the red shade. Then, crossing over to his larder, he started putting together a traveling pack.

  Adamson must have been watching for the signal. Barely fifteen minutes later, the medic strode through the door. "What happened?" he asked.

  "About what you'd expect," Foxleigh said, sinking down on the end of the bed and gesturing his visitor to the chair. "They came in, looked around, and made veiled threats against whoever'd given me my Idunine. I told them you'd used old stock."

  "Yes, they asked me about that, too," Adamson said. "But they seemed satisfied with my answers. What did you say about the IR readings?"

  "You knew about that?"

  "I heard them discussing it," Adamson said. "That was just before
they asked me who lived up here."

  "I tried to blame the stove," Foxleigh said, grimacing. "But I don't think they bought it."

  "I don't think so, either," Adamson agreed with a sigh. "Cracked ribs or not, Jensen and Flynn are both going with me tomorrow."

  "They're going sometime in the next hour, you mean," Foxleigh said with a snort. "That's more the round-trip time to Boulder."

  "Relax," Adamson said, holding out a hand. "They already have their hands full checking on the other pylons."

  Foxleigh frowned. "The pylons? That's all they were here for?"

  "That's it," Adamson said. "And they're hurrying like crazy to get back to base before full night. Apparently, they're expecting trouble in Athena."

  Foxleigh took a deep breath. So he had a little more time. Good. "Any idea what kind of trouble?"

  Adamson shrugged. "They weren't talking about it, but my guess is blackcollar trouble." He lifted his eyebrows. "Now for the big question: What are you planning to do with all this?"

  Foxleigh's first impulse was to lie. But Adamson deserved better. "I'm going into the base," he told the other. "Jensen knows the way—he was in once before."

  "You think that's where he and Flynn were headed?"

  "I don't know what else could possibly be out here he would want," Foxleigh said. "All I have to do is persuade him to take me in with him."

  "How? With the truth?"

  Foxleigh shrugged. "As much of it as he needs."

  "As much as he needs, or as much as you want him to know?"

  "Same difference," Foxleigh said. He smiled tightly. "Hell, doc, even you don't know all the truth."

  "Yeah, I've always sort of figured that," Adamson said ruefully. "You can trust me, you know."

  "I know," Foxleigh said with a sigh. "But there are certain truths that are better left hidden."

  For a moment the two men sat in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. For Foxleigh, the thoughts were mingled with bitter memories. But they would soon be over. All of it would soon be over.

  Eventually, Adamson stirred. "So what do you want me to do?"

  "Take Flynn into Denver tomorrow as planned," Foxleigh said. "He needs to find the other blackcollars and let them know what's happening."

  "You sure you and Jensen won't need him?" Adamson asked doubtfully. "That's not an easy hike, and you both qualify for walking-wounded status."

  "We'll make it," Foxleigh said.

  "If you don't, it's an equally long walk back," Adamson warned. "What then?"

  "Then as far as I'm concerned, you're released," Foxleigh said. "Your life is completely your own again."

  Adamson's eyes drifted toward the window and the mountain towering against the sky to the southeast. "You're not coming back, are you?" he said quietly.

  Foxleigh shrugged, probably a little too casually. "That depends on what I can talk Jensen into. Hey, I may not even make it over the next ridge." He held out a hand. "But whatever happens, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done for me."

  "I haven't done anything but my job," Adamson told him, gripping the other's hand tightly. "Good luck to you."

  "And to you," Foxleigh said, letting go of his hand. "Now go home. Practice being shocked by the horrific revelations Security's going to bring when they come knocking on the door."

  "Shocked I can do in my sleep," Adamson said with a wry smile. "Good-bye ... Sam."

  It was the first time in nearly three decades that he'd been called by his true name. The sound of it rang strangely in his ears. "Good-bye, Doc."

  He waited until Adamson had disappeared around a turn in the path. Then, crossing the cabin, he pulled open the latrine box. "Clear," he called softly. "Come on up."

  A few minutes later, the two blackcollars were back in the cabin. "What did they want?" Jensen asked as he disentangled himself from his rope.

  "Adamson says they came to town to check on the sensor pylons," Foxleigh said, running a critical eye over the other. Jensen's voice was firm enough, but his face seemed a little pale and he was definitely favoring his side. Hanging down there for an hour wrapped in a rope harness couldn't have done his injuries any good. "They came up here because their IR sensors seemed to show more than one person present and accounted for."

  "I was afraid of that," Jensen said, coiling the rope and setting it on top of the wood bin. "Is there someplace out there where Flynn can wait for Adamson's morning shuttle service?"

  "Assuming they don't shut down the whole region," Flynn warned. "Anyway, I'm thinking maybe we should forget Denver and try the cross-country route."

  "Relax—I don't think they'll be back tonight," Foxleigh said. "Doc says they have to check the rest of the pylons and then hotfoot it to Athena. Here, I'll take that," he added, holding out his hand as Flynn pulled his old pistol from his belt.

  "What's happening in Athena?" Flynn asked, handing it over.

  "No idea," Foxleigh said, putting the gun carefully in his own waistband. "But I get the feeing they're expecting a show from your friends tonight."

  Jensen grimaced. "With us on the sidelines," he growled. "No way we can get out tonight, I suppose?"

  "Cars aren't back yet," Foxleigh reminded him. "We may want to send Flynn down to Adamson's place overnight, though, just in case. The question is what we're going to do with you. You're not in any shape for a long, bumpy car ride."

  "No, but I don't think we've got much choice," Jensen said. "If they come back with a full team, there's nowhere around here I can hide where they can't eventually chase me down."

  "Unless you go—" Flynn broke off.

  "Unless you go where?" Foxleigh asked.

  "Unless I go somewhere outside this valley and go to ground," Jensen said, his eyes sending a warning look in Flynn's direction. "And I'd better get started while I've still got some light."

  "You're not in any shape for a long walk, either," Foxleigh said firmly. "At least, not alone. I'm going with you."

  "What, with your bad leg?" Jensen asked, gesturing toward it.

  "I'll match my leg against your ribs any day," Foxleigh said. "Besides, the minute you're out of sight of the cabin and town you'll be completely lost."

  "You might be surprised," Jensen said.

  "Or you might be," Foxleigh countered. "There are a lot of ways to get lost, sidetracked, or stuck out there."

  "I could try to get you to cover tonight and then come back for my rendezvous with Adamson in the morning," Flynn suggested.

  "You'd get just as lost together as either of you would get separately," Foxleigh said. "What are we still arguing about this for? The subject is closed. I'm helping Jensen to cover. Period."

  Jensen and Flynn exchanged looks. "He kind of sounds like Lathe when he's in one of his moods, doesn't he?" Jensen commented.

  "He does a little," Flynn agreed, clearly not at all happy with the situation.

  "All right, Toby, you're on," Jensen said, looking back at Foxleigh. "When do we leave?"

  "As soon as we've organized some provisions," Foxleigh said, a sense of relief rushing over him. Relief, and an odd sadness. "Give me a hand putting these travel packs together, will you?"

  Twenty minutes later, the two men slipped through the door into the gathering dusk. Ten paces from the cabin, Foxleigh led them off the path that led to town and set off eastward through the wilderness.

  As they headed down a small rise, he turned for one last look at the place that had been his home for so many years. Flynn was visible in the doorway, standing straight and tall and motionless, watching them leave.

  He knew he would never see either the cabin or the boy again.

  * * *

  Three o'clock in the morning.

  Bailey stood at the hospital room window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at Athena's muted streetlights and quiet buildings. So the blackcollars hadn't attacked after all. True, there was no particular reason why they should have, especially given that they were still supp
osedly waiting for Poirot to deliver the data on the defense laser threshold. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd expected that question to have been a ruse, a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security while they hit the place a day earlier than expected.

  But they hadn't. So where did that leave him?

  "Colonel?"

  Bailey turned. The interrogator he'd brought over earlier in the evening was leaning over the bandage-swathed figure in the bed, his ear close to the boy's mouth.