The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

“I don’t have a lot of choice,” she shot back, throwing a glare at Lathe. “I don’t like the way you’re bulling around Denver any more than Bernhard does. The sooner you get out of here, the better it’ll be for all of us.”

  Caine looked at Lathe. “We just make friends everywhere we go, don’t we?”

  The comsquare shrugged. “Get used to it. There aren’t a lot of people like Torch around who are willing to risk their comfortable existence for the chance to be free someday.”

  Silcox bristled. “If that’s a slap at me—”

  She broke off as Skyler slipped in through the door. “Well?” Lathe asked.

  The big blackcollar nodded. “No problems. They’re both on track.”

  “Who are on what?” Caine frowned, a familiar suspicion tightening his stomach. “Lathe, what’re you up to this time?”

  Lathe’s lips compressed momentarily. “I promised our…local benefactor that in return for sending a laser message to a scout ship Lepkowski. left us we’d find out who the mysterious Sartan is that Bernhard’s blackcollars are working so closely with.”

  “So you’ve got two of your men tailing Bernhard?” Silcox asked. “That’s crazy—he’ll spot them within five minutes.”

  “Of course he would,” Lathe said. “That’s why they’re tracking Bernhard from inside his trunk.”

  Caine felt his mouth drop open. “You are kidding. Aren’t you?”

  “It’s the only way, Caine,” Skyler said with a shrug. But he, too, looked uncomfortable. “The state Bernhard’s in, it’ll probably never even occur to him to check a trunk that obviously hasn’t been touched.”

  “Unless there are alarms or warners on it—”

  “There were. Hawking took care of them.”

  “Great,” Caine muttered. “Just great. That laser message better have, been damn important, Lathe.”

  “It was part of my promise to Pittman,” the comsquare said quietly. “Come on—we’d better call the guard ring in and get out of here. Anne…?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, why not? I haven’t got anywhere else to go…and I guess I’m pretty well committed now, anyway.”

  Lathe smiled faintly at her. “Welcome back to the war,” he said.

  Chapter 31

  MORDECAI HADN’T REALLY LIKED the idea from the start, and his opinion of it had been going steadily downhill ever since then. There were a limited number of ways in which two men in full kit could wedge themselves into a car trunk, none of them comfortable for both straight-line travel and sharp turns. Gritting his teeth, he did the best he could, hoping like hell Bernhard wasn’t headed somewhere on the far side of town.

  In that, at least, they were lucky. They’d been riding for no more than fifteen minutes when the car glided to a halt and both doors opened. Two sets of footsteps, on concrete or something equally hard…a door opening and closing.…the whine of a sliding door’s motor…and then nothing. Mordecai gave the silence three minutes, then carefully popped the trunk.

  They were, as expected, in a garage, though its generous dimensions were something of a surprise. A sliding door exited—presumably—to the street; more ordinary doors led out one side and to the rear, probably to an attached building and outside, respectively. There were no windows, and a quick flashlight scan of the walls and ceiling turned up no likely cameras or other monitors.

  “A good low-tech blackcollar hideout,” Jensen murmured as they eased out of the trunk and worked the kinks out of their muscles. “Nothing to attract Security’s notice.”

  Mordecai stepped over to the building door, pulling a sound-catcher from his kit and pressing it against the panel. A low hum was all he could hear. “They’ve got a bug stomper going in there,” he told Jensen, putting the instrument away. “I guess we do this the hard way.”

  Jensen nodded and stepped to the other door. He listened for a moment, then cracked it open carefully. Some light, not much, filtered in, and as the blackcollar opened it enough to slip out Mordecai saw that it indeed led outside. He gave Jensen a five-second lead, then followed.

  They were at the back of what appeared to be a fairly large middle-class house. Several lights were showing in various windows; Jenson was already moving cautiously toward the largest of them, a ground-floor solarium set in the center of the wall. Mordecai took the other direction, circling the garage to try to find out just where they were.

  The street out front matched the house: well lit, smoothly paved, with even some trees and other attempted landscaping in the narrow median strip. The surrounding houses, too, had the same reasonably well-off look as the one he was standing beside. He gave them a cursory scan, then peered down the street, looking for a street sign. He’d located one, and had just stepped away from the garage toward it, when a pair of cars glided down the street and came to a halt two houses down.

  Mordecai dropped into a crouch and froze, trying to squeeze into what little shadow was available. Security was his first thought; but as a single figure emerged from each of the vehicles he began to breathe easier. A Security car would have been packed to the gills with armed men.

  Abruptly, his lip twitched. The way the men walked—their feline grace, the sense of invisible awareness about them…

  They were two of Bernhard’s blackcollars.

  Mordecai grimaced, aware that he was completely exposed to anyone coming up the walk, but to his surprise and relief, the newcomers didn’t come any closer to Bernhard’s house. Instead, they walked up to the house they’d parked in front of, two down from where Mordecai was standing. At the door they paused briefly, as if working a key, then disappeared inside.

  Mordecai took a careful breath and permitted himself a smile. So Sartan at least was smart enough to play it cool: two houses, with a tunnel between them, to avoid having large crowds show up at his doorstep for everyone to see. It wasn’t an especially clever trick, but it usually worked well enough. Rising out of his crouch, he headed back to Jensen.

  The other was lying propped up on his elbows outside the solarium, peering inside through the bottom pane of glass. “Company’s starting to arrive,” Mordecai whispered. “Two blackcollars, using the old shell-game approach.”

  Jensen grunted. “Wondered where they came from. Can’t see much, but I heard two new voices join the party.”

  “How many in there so far?”

  “Sounds like just your two plus Bernhard and Kanai. If Sartan’s with them, he’s being mighty quiet.”

  Mordecai chewed his lip. “Maybe this isn’t his house after all. Well, we’re here; might as well get something out of it. You stay put and keep counting; I’ll go back and watch for visitors and bandits.”

  “Sounds good.”

  They stayed at their posts for nearly half an hour more. In that time a grand total of three more blackcollars arrived.

  “That can’t be all the troops Bernhard’s got.” Jensen shook his head when they met again and compared notes. “I got the impression he had at least a squad, more likely two or three of them. We’re talking, what, seven men total here?”

  “Maybe he’s just called in his top circle,” Mordecai suggested. But something about that felt wrong. “Or just the ones he thinks will cooperate in taking us out.”

  “No.” Jensen was positive. “I can’t hear any words out here, but the tones are clear enough—and that’s not a nice simple war council. They’re having a good healthy argument in there. Besides, if these are the troops he’s going to hit us with, why is Kanai with them?”

  “Point,” Mordecai admitted. “And no sign of Sartan either way. Are you tracking the logic the same way I am?”

  “Bernhard’s got barely six blackcollars he can trust, even counting Kanai, or only six blackcollars period,” Jensen said promptly. “He knows we’ve got at least five blackcollars” plus Caine’s team, and that we’ve got the advantage of being the defending party. He therefore needs all the forces he can get if he wants a chance in hell of stopping us—and those forces oug
ht to include all the street troops Sartan can offer him. If he isn’t talking to Sartan…” He spread his hands.

  “Then either Sartan has already backed out of the operation,” Mordecai concluded, “or else Sartan doesn’t exist at all.”

  Jensen cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Hard to avoid that conclusion, isn’t it? So what the hell is Bernhard trying to pull with his Sartan game, anyway?”

  “Control of some of the criminal underground, maybe,” Mordecai offered doubtfully. “Or he could just be muddying the waters for Security’s benefit. I don’t know—this sort of stuff is Lathe’s forte, not mine. We’ve seen enough—let’s get out of here and report.”

  “Just a second,” Jensen said, an odd look on his face. “If this really is all Bernhard can bring to bear, and if they’re not flocking to his banner as it is, maybe a gentle push would do some good.”

  “A gentle what? Jensen—”

  “Why not? A nice, civilized talk with them—surely they aren’t going to attack two emissaries here to deliver a message. He’s clearly under some pressure from them already; a little more may get us Bernhard’s help without our having to run amok all over Denver. You can stay out here as backup if you want, but I’m going to give it a try.”

  Without waiting for a reply he started back toward the garage. Mouthing an old Hebraic curse he’d been saving for just such an occasion, Mordecai followed. If Jensen’s erratic behavior of the past few months had finally played him false…well, at least he wasn’t going to die alone.

  The others heard them coming, of course. A flurry of barely audible movement began as they stepped through the garage door into the house proper and continued as they crossed a large kitchen, and by the time they reached the living room off the solarium only Bernhard was still sitting there.

  Still, the look of astonishment that appeared on his face made the entrance worthwhile. “What the hell?” he gasped, mouth opening with shock. “You! But—”

  “Hello, Bernhard.” Jensen nodded gravely. “We thought we’d drop by and see how you’re coming with the job of persuading your team how easily we can be taken.” He glanced around the room. “Nice place. Sartan get it for you?—sorry, I forgot; Sartan doesn’t exist. I guess mercenary work is profitable enough even without a sponsor.”

  For a long moment Bernhard was silent, a whole spectrum of emotions chasing each other across his face. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his tingler and tapped a brief message: All clear; return. Almost immediately the others started filtering in, and in under a minute Jensen and Mordecai were standing inside a circle of seven blackcollars.

  “Nice group,” Jensen said, glancing around. “You want to make the introductions, Bernhard?”

  “Not especially,” the other growled. “I could order you killed for this, you know.”

  Jensen shook his head in disgust. “Bernhard, how long are you going to play this game? Haven’t we proved that you’re the ones who’re going to get hurt if you keep up this nonsense?”

  One of the others growled something under his breath, and Mordecai braced himself for combat. He understood what Jensen was trying to do, but baiting someone like Bernhard took a lot of skill—and even when it was done right it could backfire at the turn of a gyro.

  But Jensen either didn’t notice the danger or didn’t give a damn. “How can someone who claims to be a blackcollar roll over and play dead just because Security asks him to?” he continued. “Have you forgotten that we’re supposed to be fighting people like Quinn?”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” Kanai said. “All right, you know about the Sartan screen—but you don’t know why we’re doing it.”

  “So tell us,” Jensen invited.

  “Because we need money if we’re going to pick up the war effort again. Lots of money, coming in on a regular basis. For that we need part of the Denver territory and to get it we need Sartan.”

  “Ingenious,” Jensen said, not sounding overly impressed. “And after you have your nest egg?”

  “We take the fight back to the Ryqril,” Bernhard said.

  Jensen looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “No. It’ll never happen. No matter how much money or territory you get, it’ll never be enough. Maybe it would have been once—maybe while Torch was still around and you had to face the fact that they were doing your job for you. But not any more. You’re too comfortable, Bernhard. Too content with your role here—particularly too comfortable with your special dispensation from Quinn. Left to yourselves you’ll just sink deeper and deeper into the garbage of the underground, until you’re no better than any of the other bosses or underlings in town. And that’s how you’ll die.”

  Slowly, his eyes locked like targeted weapons on Jensen, Bernhard got to his feet. “You’re wrong,” he said, each word as hard and precise as if cut from hullmetal.

  “Then prove it,” Jensen told him. “Come back with us. Now.”

  Bernhard’s expression didn’t change, but suddenly Mordecai felt something new in the atmosphere. A sense of thoughtful anticipation had been added to the antipathy there, as if Jensen’s analysis had found a resonance with thoughts and fears some of the others had also had. Thoughts they’d perhaps tried to bury but never completely killed.

  And it was clear that Bernhard felt it too. “Cute,” he said, lip quirking as some of the tension seemed to leave his body. “Very cute. I don’t have to let you herd me into that kind of box, you know—not even if my own men are helping you do it,” he added, glancing around. “But you’re right on one count: bucking you won’t do anything but grind down both our forces needlessly.” He took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go.”

  “Just like that?” Mordecai asked, not quite believing it.

  “I said so, didn’t I?” Bernhard snapped.

  He started toward the garage, and as he did so Kanai stirred. “I’d like to come along,” he said.

  “No,” Bernhard said over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Jensen said.

  Bernhard spun back to face him, his face furious. “Damn it, Jensen, I’m still doyen of this group,” he snarled, “I’m in command of these men; and if I don’t want him along, he doesn’t come. Understand?”

  “No, I don’t,” Jensen told him. “What difference does it make whether or not he’s along? Unless you’re planning to betray us and don’t want any witnesses.”

  “Take that back,” one of the others growled, taking a step toward Jensen. “Take it back now.”

  “Easy, Pendleton,” Bernhard said. For a long moment he locked eyes with Jensen. “We take insults very seriously on Earth,” he said at last. “You’re damn lucky we’ve built up a good resistance to them—Pendleton used to be a lot more impulsive. All right, Kanai, you want to come, you can come. Pendleton, you’re in command until we’re back.”

  “Right,” Pendleton growled, still glaring at Jensen.

  “I suppose we’re ready, then,” Bernhard said, his voice almost conversational. “Shall we go?”

  “Sure,” Jensen said…and for the first time Mordecai recognized the other hadn’t been nearly as confident about all of this as he’d appeared. “We’ll take your car, Bernhard—I’ll drive.”

  “Fair enough. Can I assume I’ll finally get to meet whoever the local is who’s been helping you since you arrived?”

  Jensen smiled slightly. “Why not?” he said, very softly. “I’m sure he’d like to meet, you, too.”

  Minutes later, they were on their way, and seated next to Kanai in the back seat, Mordecai had time to play back Jensen’s last comment. His comment, and the way he’d said it. I wonder, he thought, what that was all about.

  He couldn’t tell. But somehow, he didn’t think he liked it.

  Chapter 32

  “YOU TOOK A HELL of a chance out there. I hope you realize that.”

  Lathe paused, looking away from the mirror to the edge of the sunken tub where Reger had seated himself. “Not that much of one, really,” he told the
other. “A little strategically applied makeup, a lot of genuine’ blood in case they were being thorough enough to use type analyzers, and the rest was pretty much of a given. You’d be surprised at how few people will really look at a face that’s covered with blood.”

  Reger snorted, and Lathe turned back to the sink and the last remnants of the makeup from their prison escape, glad the tedious job was almost done. The dried blood had been easy enough, but the false head wound had been composed of non-water-soluble materials and the solvent’s odor reminded him of some of the worst days of the old war.

  “I assume,” Reger said, “that there was method to the rest of it, too, that you didn’t just improvise as you went along? The Silcox woman—why did you have her wear all of your flexarmor? Just to bulk her out?”

  “Partly that, and partly because all the rest of us were supposed to be unconscious from head wounds.” He caught Reger’s puzzled look in the mirror and continued, “She established early on for the assault team that her injury was one where she could fade in and out of consciousness, right? Okay; that meant she could conveniently fade out if someone started asking awkward questions, but could also fade in if the medics started to check her out for any problems besides her head wound—specifically, problems below neck level.”

  “Ah.” Reger nodded. “I see. With your flexarmor elsewhere, they were welcome to examine the rest of you as much as they wanted.”

  “Right,” Lathe said. “And the symptoms fit with her supposedly having bandaged her own head, anyway—”

  “Which she needed to have done to hide her hair.”

  “Right again. Also, with the in-out fading, she would have been able to provide diversion or misdirection if it had become necessary. Which it didn’t, as it turned out—I don’t think the major directing the operation really knew what he was doing.”

  Reger snorted. “You put a hell of a lot of trust in her.”

  Lathe took one last swipe at his forehead and thankfully tossed the cotton ball aside, turning to face Reger again. “We’re having to do a lot of trusting on this mission, it seems. Well, now—enough of these preliminaries. You’ve probably heard the whole story from Caine or one of the others by now, anyway. So what did you really come here to talk about?”