by Timothy Zahn
The Ryq reached the desk and stopped, his black eyes on Eakins. “‘Re’ect A’staeleris?” he said, his gravelly voice distorting the words and adding a deep-pitched tonal fluttering.
Eakins swallowed visibly. “I am Colonel Eakins, Acting Prefect,” he said, enunciating carefully. “Prefect Apostoleris has been severely injured.”
The Ryq made a gesture with its arm, and Galway winced involuntarily before he realized the alien wasn’t going for his sword. Small as it was, his motion drew the Ryq’s eyes for a split second. “I an Hrarkh—rarriaer khassq,” he ground out, his paw completing its gesture to touch a section of his baldric.
Galway felt cold. Khassq-class warriors were the highest stratum of Ryqril society—orders of magnitude above the rear-echelon troops serving on Plinry. How high up this particular Ryq was in the government of Argent or in the war machine arrayed against the Chryselli Galway didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. A khassq warrior’s authority superseded any chain of command.
Obviously, Eakins knew all this even better than Galway did. “What are your commands?” the colonel asked.
“Rithdraw Secaerity rarriaers arornd all landing ’ields,” the alien said promptly. “Eneny attack is allared to ’raceed.”
Eakins blinked once. “Ah—yes, of course. But—are you aware the enemy has eliminated our top spies?”
“Dae yae qrestion?” Hrarkh’s voice had dropped an octave, and Galway felt his mouth go dry. He’d heard that tone only once before from a Ryq; three men had died immediately afterwards.
“I don’t question either your order or your authority,” Eakins replied hastily. “I question only our ability to protect Ryqril interests without information from our spies if we withdraw our defenses.”
Hrarkh seemed to relax, achieving the effect without moving any muscle that Galway could detect, and his voice returned to its earlier pitch. “Yaer ’raetection is not needed. Ryqril ha’e contrai o’ sitaetion.”
“Of course,” Eakins nodded vigorously. “Our forces will be withdrawn at once.”
The Ryq’s eyes flicked over Galway once more; then, without another word, he turned and left.
Eakins seated himself carefully in his chair as if trying to hold onto at least a shred of dignity. Galway gave his own pride a vacation and collapsed unashamedly into his own seat. “There are rumors on Plinry that the reason Ryqril always come to humans’ offices is that if the Ryq gets mad it’s the human’s place that he tears apart instead of his own.”
“It’s no rumor—I’ve seen it happen.” Eakins’s face was shiny.
Galway looked at the open doorway. “What the hell was that all about?”
Eakins ran a hand across his forehead. “It sounds like they’re putting Apostoleris’s original plan back into effect.”
“That’s risky. If Lathe’s got something up his sleeve they could lose everything—you just finished convincing me of that.”
“That’s right,” Eakins said slowly. “But maybe they won’t have to wait until Lathe reaches the ships to move in.”
Galway frowned as he caught the other’s drift. “You think the Ryqril have their own high-level spy in Radix?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
For a moment the two men looked at each other in silence, and Galway saw his own dislike for the aliens’ private spy network mirrored on Eakins’s face. But neither said anything; and after a moment Eakins straightened in his chair and reached for the phone. He had, Galway knew, a lot of orders to rescind.
There were a lot of details involved in planning an assault, and it was late afternoon before Lathe could take the time to return to the blackcollars’ room. His mind busy with tactical details, he had the door closed behind him before he noticed the three men had company. Across the room, Lianna Rhodes was conversing in low tones with Caine.
Frowning in mild irritation, the comsquare stepped over to Hawking, who was observing the conversation closely from a chair by the table. “How’re Jensen and Skyler doing?” Hawking greeted him quietly.
“Better,” Lathe murmured. “Vale says Jensen’s suffering mainly dehydration and a fouled-up digestive system, along with some laser and electric burns. Skyler’s pretty stiff from all his burns, but he’ll be okay in a day or two. He’ll have to sit out the fighting tonight, though.” He nodded slightly toward Lianna. “How long has she been here?”
“About ten minutes,” Hawking said, disapproval in his tone. “I didn’t want to let her in, but Caine insisted. Apparently he set this up with her right after your meeting earlier with Tremayne’s people, before I took over from Kwon.”
Lathe glanced at Mordecai, lounging near the door, got a confirming nod. “What’re they talking about?”
“I can’t get much of what she’s saying, but lip-reading Caine’s responses, I gather it’s an intelligence report of some kind.”
Lathe grunted. “Well, she’ll have to leave—we haven’t got time for Caine to play general.” He raised his hand slightly, trying to catch Caine’s eye; but even as he did so the two of them got to their feet and started for the door. Lianna nodded at the comsquare as they passed; Caine’s expression was several degrees cooler. Mordecai let her out, and as he closed the door behind her Caine turned toward Lathe.
The comsquare got in the first question. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“I asked her to quietly get some information from Cameron and Salli Quinlan for me.”
Lathe nodded. “And?”
“Up until three hours ago Brocken ’port was swarming with Security men who were setting up a defense perimeter outside the main fence. Salli’s observers say they then just pulled up and left. Scattered reports from other ’ports show the same pattern. One other curious thing: since about noon spotters have seen an unusually high number of Corsairs lifting off, and no one has reported seeing them land.”
“Insurance,” Hawking murmured from behind Lathe. “The Ryqril are probably scattering them around the Diamond in hopes that one or two might wind up closer to the Novas than the ones that’ll be following us from Argent.”
“Seems reasonable,” Lathe agreed.
“Yes,” Caine nodded. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Security should suddenly offer us an engraved invitation into Brocken?”
“A fair question. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that they feel the need to send Corsairs to wait for us?”
“Like Hawking said, it’s insurance.”
“Insurance against Jensen’s magic touch with Nova weaponry, perhaps?”
Judging from his expression, it took Caine another couple of heartbeats to catch on. “Are you suggesting there’s still a spy in that group?” he asked disbelievingly. “Isn’t that a little heavy on the overkill, even for someone like Apostoleris?”
Lathe shrugged. “I may be wrong.”
“I hope to hell you are—because if you’re not, that particular lie just forced Security to weave their noose a little tighter. You were lying about Jensen, weren’t you?”
“Calm down. It got Tremayne to go along with us, didn’t it?”
“Splendid—we can all walk into Security’s arms together.” Caine paused, his eyes boring into Lathe’s. “Lathe, you’re going to need one hell of a good trick handy to pull this off.”
“I know. I may have one; we’ll just have to wait to see if it works.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“It involves Dodds, doesn’t it?” Caine persisted. “Has he armed his Corsair with heavy weapons from a secret cache or something?”
Lathe, shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to trust me a little longer.”
Caine stared at him, lips tightly compressed. “You’ve been saying that for a long time now,” he said at last. “But I have responsibility for this mission, too, and my patience only stretches so far. If you want my trust you have to give me yours.”
“I’ve risked all o
f our lives in coming here,” Lathe said quietly. “We lost a lot of good men on Plinry, we lost Novak here, and depending on how realistic the collies want to make their defense look, we may lose more tonight. How much more do you want?”
“I’ve told you—I want to know what happens when we find the Novas.”
The room was very still. Lathe could feel the close attention Hawking and Mordecai were paying to the conversation, and he knew they too were wondering what he was planning. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, putting a note of finality into his voice. “Now come over here,” he added, turning toward the table where Hawking still sat. “We haven’t got much time, and we’ve got a lot of planning yet to do.”
“Yes. We certainly do,” Caine said softly.
For a moment Lathe wondered about the disgruntlement in the younger man’s voice, but he quickly dismissed it. They were heading toward the final hurdle, and there wasn’t going to be time for anyone to sulk in his tent.
Whatever hurt feelings Caine had, he’d get over them soon enough.
CHAPTER 30
THOUGH HIS PRACTICAL EXPERIENCE was negligible, Caine’s theoretical knowledge of warfare was fairly extensive; moreover, from his vantage point on top of one of the transport trucks parked several kilometers away from Brocken he had a grandstand view of the proceedings. Everything he saw pointed to an inescapable conclusion.
The assault was going ridiculously well.
Stretched flat on his belly, Caine lowered his binoculars and hiked his goggles up high enough over his battle-hood to rub his eyes, itchy from the salt of perspiration. Both prongs of Lathe’s attack were sweeping virtually unchallenged across the brightly lit ’port field, encountering only sporadic Ryqril resistance. Clearly, Lathe had been right: the aliens wanted them to get off-planet and had cut back their defense lest they discourage the attackers into retreat.
Caine swallowed, and suddenly became very conscious of the laser pistol strapped to his thigh. There could be no further doubt that there was still a spy among them…and the thought of what he would soon have to do made his throat ache with tension.
“Caine!” came a whisper from below.
Sliding a meter forward, Caine peered over the edge of the roof. In the dim light a dozen dark figures could just barely be seen moving among the five trucks; directly beneath Caine’s position another was looking upward. “Yes?” Caine whispered back.
“Time to go,” Mordecai’s voice answered.
Gripping the edge, Caine slid his legs over the side, and half a minute later was jammed between Mordecai and Skyler in a commuter-crush of Star Force vets inside the track. “How’s it look?” Skyler asked softly.
“We’re creaming them,” Caine said. A moment later the truck’s doors were closed, and there was a jerk that sent a ripple of motion through the packed crowd as the truck began to roll.
The ride wasn’t a long one, and though Caine strained his ears he heard little of interest. Once, far ahead, he heard a faint explosion that probably signaled the opening of the ’port’s main gate; minutes later a flatter, gentler crack came. A sharp turn, a few minutes of highspeed driving, and the truck squealed to a halt. Even before the men inside had recovered their balance the doors were flung open and voices were yelling for them to get moving. Caine was near the back; hopping to the ground, he looked around.
They were at the civilian end of the ’port, nestled protectively between two mammoth freighters. Four of their five trucks had already pulled to a halt, their passengers pouring out of the doors and scrambling to the dimly lit loading hatches in the ships. Laser-armed Radix people stood nearby, acting as both guards and traffic directors. Farther away, at either end of the corridor between the ships, more figures could be seen guarding the approaches. Beyond them the landscape seemed to twist and writhe with a surprisingly strong flickering light from the direction of the ’port’s buildings. “What’s on fire?” he asked Mordecai as the other gestured him toward the nearer ship.
“Nothing important,” Skyler said, coming up stiffly on Caine’s other side. “Our first truck was loaded with flammable liquid and rigged to spray the stuff to the front and rear. Spadafora parked it between us and the tower and set it off. It puts up a wall of flame about fifty meters long and maybe ten high at the peak. Discourages enemy movement, besides scrambling infrareds.”
“Is Spadafora okay?”
“Oh, sure. Tardy’s a born pyromaniac—he’s set more firescreens than the rest of us put together. He just hitched a ride with the next truck through. Consider it insurance against the Ryqril changing their minds.”
The freighter they entered was considerably larger than the one they’d left Plinry in and at least ten years younger. Skyler seemed to know the internal layout, and got the three of them to the bridge without any obviously wrong turns.
Already there was a small crowd present. Besides Lathe, Bakshi, and Tremayne, Commander Nmura and three of his men were there, the latter running a rapid check or the ship’s control equipment. Tremayne was seated at the communications console, while Lathe and Bakshi, the latter sporting a laser pistol in addition to his nunchaku, had blackcollar communicators out. Finding an unoccupied corner at the rear of the bridge, Caine leaned against the wall and waited, heart thumping loud in his ribs.
The lift-off came a few minutes later and was so smooth that if Caine hadn’t heard the order he might have missed it. For a few seconds the ’port lights and the still-burning firescreen were visible on the visual displays, but Nmura was clearly in a hurry to get out of range of ground antiaircraft defenses, and the landscape beneath then was quickly blurred by speed and altitude into a featureless mass. On other displays the stars grew sharper as the freighter rose above Argent’s atmosphere. Casually, Caine rested his hand on the butt of his laser and forced himself to relax.
“Orbit achieved,” one of the starmen reported, his face buried in a sensor hood. “Chainbreaker II’s right behind us; no sign of pursuit.”
“That won’t last long,” Nmura said, turning to Lathe. “I need to know where we’re going now, Comsquare.”
Lathe nodded to Caine. “Okay, Caine. This is it.”
“Not quite yet,” Caine said. He slid his laser from its holster. “First there’s one more government agent to neutralize.”
The normal hums of a spaceship bridge where thunderous in the sudden stillness. Lathe spoke first, his eyes on Caine’s face as if refusing to acknowledge the laser pointed at his chest. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
Caine ignored the question. “Everyone stay out of my line of fire,” he ordered through dry lips. “If you’ll consent to being tied up and sedated, Lathe, you’ll get a chance to defend yourself at a trial. Otherwise I’ll kill you right now. Which will it be?”
“Caine, you’d better have one damn good explanation for this,” Skyler warned, his hand hovering near the hilt of one of his knives.
“Lathe’s a spy,” Caine said. “I don’t have proof—yet—but the pointers are all there. How else could everything he pulled always work without a hitch?” He gestured minutely with the laser. “Well, Lathe—you going to let Bakshi and Nmura tie you up?”
“Oh, for—Caine, you’ve lost your mind. But if it’ll make you feel better, all right.” Lathe raised his hands shoulder-high—and leaped.
The move was abrupt, without any telegraphing whatsoever—but Caine had expected it, and before Lathe had crossed half of the three-meter gap separating them he dropped to one knee and fired. An instant later he dived to the side as the blackcollar’s momentum sent him hurling past to crash into the corner. Sliding to the floor, he lay still.
The silence that returned was a darker thing than had been there seconds earlier. Caine remained crouched on the floor, laser ready, watching the blackcollar for signs of motion. Lathe lay in an almost fetal position on his side, his right arm curled back over his head while his left draped partly over the crinkly-gray rift in his flexarmor that the laser had opened acr
oss his chest. Even from a meter away Caine could smell the acrid stink of burnt flesh.
Muscles trembling with reaction, Caine got to his feet, replacing the laser in its holster, and turned to face the horrified stares of the others. “All right,” he said, as casually as possible. “I guess we’re ready to go now.”
Moving like a man in a dream, Skyler detached himself from the group by the control consoles and went over to crouch by Lathe’s still form. His hands touched the charred flexarmor, gently probed beneath the battle-hood for the carotid artery. He held the pose a moment before rising with some difficulty to his feet, and Caine decided it was a good thing much of the other’s expression was still hidden behind his goggles. “Caine—” he began, his voice deadly.
“He condemned himself,” Caine interrupted him. “I claim the same evidence he applied against Fuess and his friends: he attacked first.” Deliberately, he turned his back on Skyler and stepped to where Nmura sat, frozen-faced, at the helm. “Commander, I have two sets of space-time coordinates for the Novas. Can this computer handle an orbit calculation from that?”
Nmura nodded, his expression uncertain.
“All right.” Carefully, Caine unlocked the mental vault he’d set up an eternity ago and drew out the precious numbers. It felt strange, as if part of him resisted the action. “First position set: standard solar/galactic coordinate system.…”
The figures took less than a minute to recite, and within half a minute the computer had done the orbit calculation, extrapolated it thirty-three years forward in time—with all known perturbations taken into account—and displayed both the current location and a choice of three courses from the freighter’s own position.
