by Timothy Zahn
“It’ll do,” Lathe said. “You have any cash in the house?”
The father’s lips twitched. Stepping to a small console desk in the conversation-room corner, he pulled a flat folder from the top drawer and withdrew a thin stack of familiar-looking bills. “My wallet’s in the bedroom,” he added, handing Lathe the banknotes.
“Don’t bother,” the comsquare said, examining one of the bills closely. TDE marks, just like the ones they’d brought from Plinry, but with an extra seal embossed on one side that identified its origin as the Phoenix printing office.
“Not going to work,” Skyler murmured over his shoulder.
“Not unless we want to advertise just how far out of town we’re from,” Lathe agreed. “On to plan beta, I guess.” He looked up at the father. “Afraid we’ll have to take your cash after all. I trust this will cover everything.”
The other caught the small box Lathe tossed him. His eyes widened momentarily as he saw the small diamond inside. “Yes—yes, this is more than enough. I—uh—thank you, sir.”
“You will, of course, keep our visit quiet,” the comsquare said.
“Oh, yes—of course we will.”
“I hope so. For your sake.” Turning, Lathe headed for the door.
The bar the mother had mentioned was at the upslope edge of the shopping area, its parking lot edged with trees. Jensen and Hawking were waiting in the shadows there when Lathe and the others joined them. “About twenty people in the bar—all male, I think,” Jensen reported. “Of the four cars there, the one at the north end would probably be our best bet, the one next to it second best.”
“Be a bit of a squeeze even with two,” Skyler murmured.
“We can take all four if you want,” Jensen said dryly. “Barman’s a big harmer who looks like he’s been in a fight or two—may have a weapon handy. The restaurant at the other end of the block’s already closed for the night, and everything else seems empty.”
“Communications?”
“Phone behind the bartender,” Hawking said. “No obvious antenna anywhere, so it’s probably a groundwire or optical-fiber connection to a central station. Easiest place to knock it out is inside.”
“Though we are within running distance of other phones,” Lathe pointed out.
“There’s that, of course.”
“Um. All right. Hawking, get busy on that car. You and Jensen will rendezvous with Caine while Skyler, Mordecai, and I take a good look inside and clear the tracks for you.”
The car was of a type Hawking had never seen before, and it took him nearly five minutes to bypass its antitheft system and get it started. “Now what?” Skyler asked as the car purred off into the darkness.
“We try our famous smuggler impersonations and see if we can shake loose some kind of underground. Mordecai, you’ll be backup out here.”
Lathe had been in and out of bars since he’d turned eighteen, nearly forty years earlier, and he’d long since learned that it was the clientele—not the decor, stock, or planet—that distinguished the various types from one another. Skyler a step behind him, he headed toward the bar, throwing casual glances at the dark and sparsely occupied tables they passed among, and by the time he hooked an elbow over the stained ceramic counter, he’d made his assessment.
This wasn’t the sort of bar where people came simply to enjoy themselves. The men openly eying the newcomers were hard, middle-aged working types, the late hour and almost tangible bitterness in the air suggesting they were unemployed. A place for being angry together, and a potentially fertile recruitment center for an anti-Ryqril underground.
The barman took his time stepping over to them. “Evening,” he rumbled. “What’ll you have?”
“Two glasses of your best beer,” Lathe told him. “And have something yourself.”
“Thanks,” the other said indifferently. He stepped to a line of spigots in the back wall, drew three glasses. “Just passing through?” he asked as he set two of them on the bar.
A blunt question; it deserved an equally blunt answer.
“Depends on how fast we find an interested buyer,” Lathe told him, sipping at his glass. The beer was unexpectedly bitter. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone in the market for, shall we say, hard-to-get merchandise?”
The other’s face didn’t change. “Most business around here gets done in Denver.”
“Ah.” Reaching into his pocket, Lathe withdrew a small laser pistol, a rebuilt souvenir of the Terran-Ryqril war. “Sorry to have wasted your time, then,” he said, turning the weapon over in his hands as if looking for imperfections in its dark gray finish. “I guess we’ll be moving on.”
He looked up. The barman’s eyes were on the pistol, his mouth hanging slightly open. “Uh, well, now wait just a second. How many of those do you have?”
“Are you interested in buying?” Lathe countered.
The other licked his lips. “Not me personally, but I know someone who’ll definitely want to talk to you. If you and your chaser want to take a seat I’ll give him a call.”
A setup? Possibly. But the barman didn’t seem the Security type…and besides, Mordecai was outside. “Fine,” he told the other. “He’s got fifteen minutes.” Slipping the laser pistol away, he nodded to Skyler, and together they headed to a back-wall table that offered a good view of both door and bar.
“Any bets as to who he’s calling?” Skyler murmured, sipping at his beer.
Lathe looked at the barman, wrapped secretively around his phone. “Not Security, I’d say. On the other hand, he doesn’t strike me as the fanatical type, either, and from what Caine told Lepkowski about Torch I wouldn’t expect them to take anyone who wasn’t frothing over with Noble Purpose.”
“Maybe we’ve got two separate undergrounds, operating here,” Skyler suggested. “As well as a group of blackcollars.”
Lathe smiled wryly. “I rather thought you’d pick up on that.”
“What’s to pick up? The family back there labeled us from the second I used my nunchaku, without even needing to see our flexarmor. They may not have had any direct contact with blackcollars before, but we haven’t been consigned to ancient history, either.”
“Agreed. Which unfortunately leads to a disturbing question: why were they so terrified of us?”
Skyler chewed at his lip. “They were, weren’t they? Worried about Security reprisals for aiding us?”
“Maybe.” Conversation had returned to its earlier level in the bar, but several of the patrons still seemed to have half an eye on the blackcollars. “This bar may not be as innocent as it seems—could be it caters largely to a certain type of traveler. The type that doesn’t care much for strangers.”
Skyler shrugged. “If so, the smuggler routine should put us right at home here.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, keeping a general eye on things and waiting for a signal from Mordecai. The fifteen minutes Lathe had allotted the barman were nearly up when the word finally came: Big car arriving; five men inside…three approaching you.
Acknowledged, Lathe sent. Hitching his chair a few centimeters back from the table, he surreptitiously drew a shuriken from his belt pouch and slipped it into the pocket where he’d put the laser pistol. Skyler, across the table, made his own preparations.
The three men walked into the bar as if they owned the place, and almost instantly all conversation again ceased. The barman nodded toward the blackcollars’ table, and two of the men swaggered forward, leaving the third standing guard beside the door.
“Hear you’ve got some poison for sale,” one of them said as he stopped a meter in front of Lathe. His partner took another few steps to hover behind Skyler.
“Poison?” Lathe shook his head minutely. “Weapons.”
The other gave him a long, appraising look. “You are new at this, aren’t you? ‘Poison’ is illegals, dimbo. Let’s see it.”
Lathe didn’t move. “You in the market to buy or just browsing?
”
The second man growled something. “Don’t push your luck or my patience,” the first man told Lathe, his tone icy. One hand reached up to unfasten his coat, and the comsquare caught a glimpse of a compact pistol slung under his arm. “Let’s see the merchandise.”
Lathe cocked an eyebrow and reached his right hand into his pocket. For a moment he froze there, as a gun magically appeared at Skyler’s head. Then, moving with exaggerated caution, he drew, the laser out by its barrel and held it out. “I’ve left the power pack out, of course,” he said.
“Yeah, uh-huh.” The other looked the weapon over for a moment. “How many you got?”
“How many you want?”
The man turned cold eyes on the blackcollar. “Twenty-five percent of your stock. For permission to sell the rest—and I’ll throw in some helpful advice about doing business in this area.”
“Oh?” Lathe eased his right hand up to smooth his beard, the shuriken he’d palmed biting gently into his skin. “That seems a bit high.”
“Not really. Especially when you consider the price lets you keep your skin, too.” Stepping back a pace, he drew his own pistol and leveled it at Lathe. “You got five seconds to make up your—”
The last word never made it out of his mouth—but most of his air did, as Lathe’s foot snapped in a curving kick that knocked the gunhand aside and then buried itself in the man’s abdomen. The other folded over and dropped to the floor as Lathe’s shuriken flashed across the room to bury itself in the wall by the third man’s head. The backup jerked violently in reaction and then stood perfectly still, his hand dropping empty from inside his coat.
A flicker at the edge of his vision made Lathe turn, just in time to see Skyler’s knife bounce hilt-first off the barman’s right forearm. The man bellowed, the short rifle he’d been holding clattering to the floor…and a deathly silence descended on the room.
Just as it had in the house up the road. And from the terror-frozen faces at the bar’s other tables it was very likely for the same reason.
Standing up, Lathe retrieved his laser and his assailant’s gun. Off to the side, Skyler was also on his feet, scooping up his knife and the barman’s weapon. The man who’d been standing behind the big blackcollar, Lathe noted, was stretched out unconscious two meters back from Skyler’s chair.
“That wasn’t very polite,” Lathe said to the first man, curled around himself on the floor where he’d fallen. Through the pain in his eyes Lathe could see a fading remnant of fear being replaced by resignation. “Pulling a—looks like a flechette or dart gun—on us. Skyler?”
“This one had a pellet scattergun,” the other reported, hefting the barman’s weapon. “Pellets may be paral-drugged.”
Lathe eyed the man by the door. “Dump your, gun onto the floor and come here.”
The other obeyed instantly, moving in the jerky fashion of an unoiled automaton. “I’m sorry, sir—we didn’t know it was you guys—Phelling just said—”
“That we were easy targets?”
“Oh, no, sir—just that you were selling in the boss’s territory without his okay—”
“Shut up, Travis.” The man at Lathe’s feet spat between clenched teeth.
“Ignore him, Travis, this is very interesting,” Skyler put in. “Just who is this boss of yours?”
Travis gulped but remained silent. Lathe switched his gaze to the barman. “What’s his name, Phelling?”
The other shrugged slightly. “It’s no secret—you could figure it out easily enough with a territory map. Manx Reger.”
Lathe nodded, though the name didn’t flip any switches. “And what’s your excuse?”
Phelling spread his hands wide. “Look, all this is Mr. Reger’s territory. You know how it works—part of the price for letting me run my place is to keep my eyes open.”
“Uh-huh.” Lathe’s fingers sought out his tingler. Mordecai: Clear out backup.
Acknowledged.
“Well,” Lathe told Phelling, “I suggest you be a bit less enthusiastic about joining in the fight next time. Let’s go, Skyler.”
The two blackcollars walked through the still-frozen tableau to the door, dropping their appropriated weapons there as Lathe pulled his shuriken out of the wall.
Mordecai was standing beside a large and well-polished car as they emerged into the parking lot, two vaguely crumpled figures sprawled beside him. “Any trouble?” Lathe asked.
“Hardly.” Mordecai gestured to the car. “This thing’s a rolling arsenal—a pair of scatterguns in the back seat and a long-range sniper’s flechette rifle in the trunk. Are they Security?”
“No, they seem to be the local underground. The wrong underground, unfortunately.” Lathe stooped to peer inside the car. Plenty of room for both themselves and part of Caine’s team. “Might as well ride in comfort. You got the keys?”
Mordecai dangled them in reply.
They reached the site of Caine’s forced landing fifteen minutes later…to find that while they’d been gone the universe had taken a hard left turn.
“What do you mean, not here?” Lathe fumed to Jensen. “They have to be here.”
“All I know is that no one’s replying to tingler signals,” the other said, frustration evident in his voice. “Hawking’s been driving up and down the road for ten minutes without drawing a single buzz in response.”
“But—” Lathe broke off as their tinglers came on: Glider located, four hundred meters west on road.
They found Hawking in the bushes about five meters off the southern edge of the road. “Torn up some, but it’s definitely Colvin’s cargo glider.”
“Any sign of the cargo pod itself?”
“Not yet. Maybe Colvin just pushed his range too far and crashed, but everyone was in good enough shape to hike it.”
Lathe looked around. Behind them a tall bluff rose against the starry sky, directly back along the route the gliders had been tracking.
Jensen followed his gaze and his thoughts. “Could be they steered around it,” he suggested. “A bit tricky, but possible.”
“The road switchbacks upward on the other side of that bluff,” Skyler pointed out. “That would have created some updrafts this direction. And Colvin did have more altitude than the others.”
“Finding the other gliders might give us a better idea of what happened,” Hawking added.
Lathe glanced west just as another blue-violet light appeared briefly between distant mountain peaks. “Unfortunately, we haven’t got that much time,” he said. “Whether Security’s got them or not, we’re going to need help finding them.” So much for giving Caine his grand illusion of independence, the comsquare thought with a touch of bitterness: I should have known better.
“Help from whom?” Hawking asked. “Caine’s mysterious Torch?”
“Maybe later—if they really exist. For now, I’ve got someone a bit more substantial in mind. Come on—we need to get back to the bar before it closes.”
Chapter 5
BACK ON PLINRY, COLVIN knew, he would never live this down.
He’d made it over the mountain that had nailed Alamzad and was gliding above the road watching for the switchbacks with plenty of altitude to spare. And then that damn wind had come in out of nowhere and that bluff had shot up right in front of him, and he’d panicked.
Panicked. There was no other word for it. He’d frozen like an amateur, riding that wind dead-on for the bluff until there was no time to try to steer around it. By the time he’d been able to think again he had exactly two options: ram the mountain just above the second switchback, or try and fly over the damn thing. He’d almost made it, too…but almost never counted for anything.
And so now here he sat, all alone on top of the bluff with an injured bird and a heavy cargo pod and a wind that was trying to freeze his face off…and a massively bruised ego.
“Colvin?” Pittman’s voice came anxiously in his ear. “You okay?”
“Sure,” Colvin said, trying to sou
nd casually hearty. I meant to do that; of course I did. Not fooling anybody but himself. “Where are you?”
Braune’s voice cut in. “We’re on the road around beyond the bluff you landed on—maybe a couple hundred meters past that last switchback curve. The road looks pretty level now for a white—shouldn’t be too bad a hike.”
“Though it’ll probably get worse before it gets better,” Pittman added. “What’s the view like from up there?”
“Oh, terrific.” It was a terrific view, too. The problem was that it was a terrific view of all the wrong things. To the southeast he could see that the road did indeed begin to climb again no more than a kilometer or two past the others’ position; to the west he could see the blue-violet lights of searching aircraft circling the mountains a few kilometers away. The trajectory of the falling drop pods had temporarily fooled them, but that wouldn’t last long. Soon the search would widen, and picking up five men hiking along the road in the middle of nowhere would be child’s play.
And as he gazed westward, he saw a flicker of light along the road.
Headlights.
It was a crazy idea—he knew it was a crazy idea—but for all that it was their best hope. The road passed beneath him twice in a sharp hairpin switchback turn before rounding the bluff to continue past Braune and Pittman. At their position the vehicle would be starting to pick up speed, but around the curves it would surely be going slowly enough to hijack.
If he could get down there fast enough.
He stood up, nearly losing his balance to the wind, and sent his hands on a quick inspection tour of his glider. Injured, sure, but not crippled. A few bent struts and a small rip or two in the wing, but nothing that couldn’t handle a short flight. The cargo pod was the only problem, but if the gale whistling in his ears held up he’d have no problem launching even with that dragging along the runway.
The lights were moving closer, approaching the first pass beneath him, and for the first time Colvin could see that the headlights were backed up by a minor Christmas-tree display of amber running lights. The “car” was actually a large trailer truck—which opened up an entirely new possibility.
