by Timothy Zahn
A little, but not much. The uniform wasn’t a bad fit, but it didn’t go with his graying hair and wrinkled skin, and the blackcollar field pack dangling from his left hand was emphatically not standard collie equipment. Staying in the shadow of the tent, he considered his next move.
To his left was the barracks and three tents of unknown purpose; to his right were two more unknown tents, the command, post, and a third unknown tent. Wishing the sun were lower, Jensen studied the middle of the compound. The plants there seemed particularly resilient and didn’t show wheel tracks well, but it seemed to him the heaviest marks went to the tent just left of the command post. Taking a deep breath, Jensen headed off to his right, trying to walk as if he owned the place. Passing the first tent, he stepped into the second.
Pay dirt. Stacks of white plastic crates filled the interior, and inside the open ones Jensen could see packages of field rations. Dropping to one knee, he began to fill his pack.
There was still no one in sight in the compound when he again looked outside. Not sure he believed the kind of luck he was having, he stepped out quickly, went behind the command post tent—and came face to face with two Security men emerging from the woods not thirty meters away.
Jensen was caught flatfooted. There was no place to hide, even if the others hadn’t already been looking straight at him. But his training was equal to the shock, and he kept walking without the guilty stop that would have caught their attention.
The Security men didn’t have the benefit of his training, and had the further disadvantage of seeing a familiar uniform. They continued toward Jensen for several steps before one of them suddenly focused on the blackcollar’s face. A puzzled look flickered across his eyes, and suddenly he jolted to a stop. His left hand slapped his companion’s arm as his right clawed at his holster—but he hadn’t even closed on the pistol’s grip when Jensen’s throwing star knocked him backwards into oblivion. The other soldier, startled into belated awareness, had no chance at all. His scream of terror had hardly begun before it was cut off by a second star.
Cursing under his breath, Jensen dropped to one knee beside the bodies and retrieved his stars. Too slow, too damn slow—and the sloppiness was going to cost him dearly. The whole camp must have heard that yell, and his chance of sneaking out unnoticed was gone forever. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw seven men come boiling out of the barracks, weapons at the ready.
Jensen didn’t hesitate. They would spot him anyway, and the longer he could maintain his camouflage the better. Waving one arm, he shouted, “Over here, quick!” He turned back to the dead men, watching the other group from the corner of his eye.
He would have been surprised if they hadn’t fallen for it; and fall they did, five of them running toward him while the other two headed in another direction, presumably to get a medkit. Jensen’s pack was on the ground at his side; keeping his movements to a minimum, he pulled the nunchaku out with his left hand, sliding it along the ground to where he could lift it without it being seen. There was no time to get to his other weapons; he would have to hope the nunchaku and six throwing stars in his belt pouch would be enough. Averting his face, he pressed the nunchaku to his chest and waited.
The footsteps arrived behind him. “Oh, God,” a shocked voice panted. “What happened?”
“Don’t know,” Jensen grunted. The others were coming up now; half standing up, Jensen stepped backwards as he rose. “I heard a scream and saw him fall.”
“Are they—?” the first man began as he dropped to one knee.
He never finished the question. Shock had dulled whatever combat reflexes he and his men had ever had: they were clumped together, their weapons pointing the wrong way as they scanned the woods nervously—and Jensen’s back-and-rise maneuver had put him into the center of the group.
He took out the soldier behind him, first with an elbow in the solar plexus and a backfist to the side of the face. Simultaneously, his other hand swung the two nunchaku sticks like a club into the throat of the man to his right. A short kick caught the kneeling man in the back of the head, and the last two had barely time to turn before the nunchaku, flailing at full length now, broke both their necks.
Scooping up his pack, Jensen ran for the front of the command tent. The fight had taken place barely fifteen meters from the tent, and it was impossible for those inside not to be aware that something was wrong. He had to stop them before they sent out an emergency call that would bring the scattered patrol boats down on top of him.
He nearly ran down two men as he rounded the corner. “What—?” one of them managed to say before the nunchaku caught him across the face. With a yelp the other jumped to the side, firing a dart pistol wildly in Jensen’s direction. The blackcollar felt a cluster of needles ricochet from his hidden flexarmor as he dived for the ground, his leg sweeping horizontally to knock the legs out from under his opponent. The other fell heavily, his pistol flying from his hand. Two more quick blows with the flail and Jensen was again racing for the tent entrance, jamming the nunchaku into his belt as he scooped a handful of throwing stars from their pouch. The flap which was the entrance was wide open; hoping fervently that there were no obstructions to the side of it, he dived through the opening.
They were waiting for him, of course: three men standing well back from the entrance with weapons ready. But they’d clearly expected him to come straight in, and his sideways dive took them by surprise. Clusters of darts hit the tent wall and nipped at Jensen’s legs as he hit the ground and somersaulted, sending two stars spinning toward his attackers halfway through his roll. The stars missed, but accomplished their intended goal of forcing the Security men to dodge. The second fusillade was completely off target; and then Jensen was back on his feet, his stars flashing on their way. Within seconds it was over.
Panting, Jensen gave the tent a quick once-over. A huge map, covered with colored markers, dominated the center of the floor. On one side of the tent sat a mass of communications equipment; on the other was a rack holding six snub-nosed laser rifles. He eyed the latter, wondering why the Security men hadn’t used those instead of dart pistols. It looked like Security had decided to try and take him alive, a policy he certainly couldn’t argue with. Leaning over the map, he tried to figure out where he was.
A sudden crackle from the communications gear made him turn his head—and probably saved his life. Framed in the doorway, at the edge of his peripheral vision, were two figures.
Jensen dropped and rolled even as the first laser blast sizzled the space he’d just vacated. The second man’s shot was closer, and Jensen felt the heat on his face as he came up on one knee and scrabbled for his throwing stars.
There was only one left.
He deserved to die, Jensen thought bitterly, his mind working with a clarity and speed which seemed to freeze the scene before him. He’d completely forgotten the two men who’d left the main pack earlier, and that act of stupidity was now demanding its price. The two men were standing together, one to the left and slightly behind the other, their laser rifles tracking him—close enough together to be taken out by a thrown nunchaku if the weapon had been in its usual holster. But it was still stuck in the Security uniform belt, and he knew he couldn’t free it in time. Another half second and the lasers would be lined up on him…and with all his strength Jensen hurled his last star at the rear man’s right leg.
It hit just above the ankle, with the result Jensen had hoped for. Knocked off balance, the soldier fell heavily into his companion’s side, tumbling them both to the floor as their shots went wild. Long before they could untangle themselves Jensen was on them, nunchaku swinging with the savage intensity of someone who has squeezed one last chance from a hostile universe.
He was trembling with reaction when he finally straightened up, so drained emotionally that the voice bursting abruptly from the speaker didn’t even make him jump. “Base Five, this is Spotter Sixteen. Are you all right there?”
For a moment Jensen hesitate
d. Then, picking up one of the laser rifles, he stepped over to the communications equipment, a vague plan forming in his mind. The controls didn’t seem complicated; tentatively, he touched a button. “Spotter Sixteen, this is Base Five,” he gasped. “We’re under attack!”
“By the blackcollar?” the voice asked, suddenly crisp.
“Oh, God, I don’t know,” Jensen said, putting a frightened whine into his voice. “They’re shooting at us from upslope. We’re mostly pinned down, and the captain’s been hit—”
“Get a hold of yourself!” the other snapped. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. How many snipers are there? There’s only supposed to be one man out there.”
“Maybe he just moves around a lot—I don’t know.” Jensen fired twice near the antenna, knowing the other’s radio would pick up a slight but distinctive crackle. “God, they’re firing in here again,” he groaned. “Look, sir, I’m going to try and get the captain out—he’s hit bad.”
“Nega—” The voice cut off as Jensen sent two shots into the equipment. With luck, he thought as he ran for the tent entrance, they would assume the camp radio had been shot out before he heard their order.
Nothing was visible overhead when he emerged, but that would soon change, and Jensen needed to give the approaching patrol boats at least a little of what they would expect to see. Flipping his rifle to full power, he began sending shots into the slopes above the camp as he retrieved his pack and ran to one of the open-roofed vehicles parked by the dirt road. They were standard military-looking models, little changed from those he’d used in the war. Climbing in, he checked the power gauge and drove back into camp, where he picked one of the dead men at random and loaded him aboard. The patrol boat would expect to see him bravely rescuing his wounded captain and he couldn’t disappoint them. Turning onto the dirt road, he headed downhill.
He wasn’t any too soon. He was only two minutes out of the camp when, sweeping in from the west like Phaëthon’s chariot, a patrol boat thundered by overhead. Hunching over the steering wheel, Jensen concentrated on his driving. It would be at least a while, he hoped, before the forces that were gathering grew tired of trying to draw fire from the hills and finally landed. When they discovered how the men at the base had died…well, Jensen planned to be far from his stolen vehicle before it was found.
But whether they knew it or not, Security had won this round. Jensen had hoped to be several hours on his way before anyone even knew he’d been in camp. Now, the alarm would be out within a fraction of that time.
There was really only one alternative that offered any hope of success. They would expect him to head east, for the flatlands and a populace he could hope to vanish into—and therefore he had to make the less obvious move back into the mountains. It seemed crazy, but with a week’s worth of new rations and most of the enemy’s activity to the east it was a gamble worth taking. If he could work his way far enough south, he had a chance of slipping out of the net completely unnoticed. At that point.…
He frowned. His original plan had been to link up with Argent’s underground as soon as possible, but that might turn out to be no better than walking into Security HQ: It was painfully clear that the organization leaked information like a string bag—the searchers here knew far too much about him. Unless one of the others had been captured and made to talk…but they wouldn’t be so interested in taking him alive if they already knew about Caine’s starships. No, Lathe must be playing it cautious in an unsafe position—and in that case Jensen’s best plan might simply be to go to ground for the duration. It was a thought worth serious consideration.
From far behind came the faint multiple-crack of a strafe-charge attack. Grimacing, Jensen increased his speed slightly. Very soon now it would be time to abandon the car.
CHAPTER 15
THE HALLWAY WAS DESERTED as Lathe strode along it; which was just as well, since he wasn’t feeling much like company. His lust was starting to fade now, but Faye Picciano’s face hovered like a succubus before his eyes and he could still smell her perfume. He wanted to go back to her; wanted her more than he cared to admit. And surely he could handle it….Gritting his teeth, he kept walking.
He was still feeling irritable when he reached the blackcollar room, throwing the door open suddenly enough to make Skyler, Novak, and Mordecai reach reflexively for their weapons. Lathe didn’t like startling his men like that—even blackcollar combat reflexes could be blunted—but at least they’d know now to leave him alone for a while.
Caine, unfortunately, either missed the hint or simply ignored it. He’d been pacing near the door when Lathe entered, and almost before it was closed he’d planted himself in the comsquare’s path. “Lathe, we need to talk.”
“Later,” Lathe growled, moving to go around him.
Caine stuck out an arm. “No, now,” he snapped. “I’ve had too much ‘later’ already.”
Clenching his teeth firmly, Lathe held onto the shards of his temper. Caine was the last person on Argent he could afford to blow up at. “All right. What’s on your mind?”
“Finishing up our mission before the government finds us.” Caine waved his arm, the gesture encompassing the other blackcollars as well as the room around them. “We’ve been cooped up in this place for six straight days now—I’ve hardly even been outside this room in that time. About all you’ve done is move everybody except us out of the building and hold lots of meetings. When’s something going to happen?”
“You know the military,” Skyler spoke up from the table where he’d been reading a tape. “Double-time it, then wait at parade rest.”
“Don’t give me that. You guys move fast enough when you want to—what’s left of Plinry could attest to that.”
“This isn’t Plinry,” Lathe reminded him. “We’re in unknown territory, forced to rely on an organization that’s probably riddled with collie spies. We need to get as much information as possible before we move.”
“Is that why you’ve been monopolizing Faye Picciano lately,” Caine snorted. “I should have known it was business.”
For some reason Caine’s words suddenly put things in perspective; and rather than boil over, Lathe’s anger drained away. “It was, on both sides—and her business is also information. Be thankful I deflected her away from you—you wouldn’t have lasted an hour once she got started.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the complete temptress routine, all the way down to the pheromone-based perfume she was wearing. And she’s damn good at it, too.”
Caine suddenly looked wary, as the source of Lathe’s mood must have dawned on him. “Did she—ah—?”
“No, she didn’t succeed,” the comsquare said. “The sexual ploy’s the oldest in the book, but no less potent for all that. I know better than to risk emotional entanglement on a mission; I’m not sure you do. Chances are you’d be in bed with her right now, telling her anything she wanted to know.”
“Ridiculous,” Caine said…but he didn’t sound entirely sure of himself. “You think she’s a government spy?”
“Not necessarily.” Lathe stepped past Caine and sat down across from Skyler. “Whichever side she’s on she’d want to pump us for all she could. Tacticians always want all the information they can get.”
“Is that why you sent the others away from here?” Caine asked, coming over to stand beside the table. “So she couldn’t get to them?”
“She or other potential spies. Also, it’s a good general policy not to load all your torpedoes into the same tube. Actually, you’re the only one we absolutely have to keep the collies from getting hold of.”
“Hence the bodyguards?”
“We just like your company,” Novak assured him from his bunk.
Caine’s response was a snort.
“But you’ve got a point,” Lathe said, thinking quickly. The timing was critical here.…“If we sit around too long the collies may try something. Okay. Tomorrow, Mordecai and I will go take a close-up look at He
nslowe Prison, try to find the best approach for getting the vets out.”
Across the room Mordecai raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. Caine said. “Well, that’s something. I’ll come, too.”
Lathe shook his head. “Sorry. We’re keeping you out of collie reach, remember? You’ll stay here where it’s safe.”
Caine’s lip twisted, but something in Lathe’s face must have warned him not to argue the point. Turning on his heel, he strode over to the window and stared out.
The impatience of youth, Lathe thought, stroking his dragonhead ring as he looked at Caine’s stiff back. A wave of weariness swept abruptly over him. Why was he going through all this torture again, especially for a mission with such a poor chance of success? Sighing, he turned his eyes away from Caine.
Skyler was still sitting across the table from him. “You all right?” he asked softly.
Lathe managed a lopsided smile. “Sure.”
“He’ll learn. You serious about tomorrow?”
“Yes. Have you talked to Vale lately?”
“Novak saw him this morning. O’Hara and Haven seem to be coming along okay. Still pretty weak, though—high-dose Idunine treatment’s no fun.”
“None of us are in this for the fun of it,” Lathe said dryly. “When will they be able to fight?”
“Vale guessed a couple of days—maybe three or four before they’re back to full strength.”
“Okay.” Lathe glanced at his watch. “The tactical group’s meeting in an hour; I’ll tell them about the trip then. Not about your part, of course.”
Skyler rubbed his fingertips thoughtfully on the table-top. “You have to tell them anything at all? If there’s a collie spy in the group, you’ll be inviting a trap.”
“Possibly. But if we don’t say anything they’ll never trust us again—Tremayne already thinks we ask too much on blind faith. Besides, we might prove this way whether or not there is a spy in the group.”
