by Timothy Zahn
A third man stepped up to Lathe. “What’s the word?” he asked, his voice practically dripping with suppressed eagerness.
“Apparently, it’s no,” Lathe said. “I’m sorry.”
The disappointment that Marcovich had seen moments earlier on Lathe’s face appeared on the newcomer’s. “You sure? I understood several injections were necessary—”
“But there should be a particular physiological reaction on even the first one,” Hawking said gently. “It’s simply not there.”
“And you’ll remember the instructions specified a single dose, anyway,” Lathe said. “Still, there’s one more thing we can try.”
Abruptly, a fist snapped out at Marcovich’s face. He twitched away, trying to bring his rebellious arm up to defend himself; but even before he’d moved the punch had stopped centimeters away from his nose. “No.” Lathe shook his head, withdrawing his hand. “No enhancement at all.”
The third man took a deep breath. “Yeah. Well…we’d better be moving along, then, hadn’t we? Eventually someone’s going to miss him.”
Lathe frowned. “Hawking?”
“I think he’s going to be okay,” the other assured him. “It’ll be several more minutes before he can go anywhere, but the initial reaction’s already passing. He’s not going to die out here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I was,” Lathe acknowledged. Briefly, his right hand clutched at his left wrist. “All right, get moving. I’m going to gag you and tie your feet together,” he added to Marcovich, producing a cord from somewhere. “By the time you can get loose, we ought to be long gone.”
Marcovich nodded understanding as the two others disappeared off into the underbrush. Already the fire in his blood was fading away, and with it the immediate fear of death. “I didn’t think you blackcollars cared about people like me,” he told Lathe, struggling to get the words out.
“We don’t,” the other said flatly, busying himself with the cord. “At least, not very much. But we don’t kill even Security men indiscriminately, and certainly not when it isn’t necessary. Though I doubt you’d show similar restraint.”
Marcovich thought it over, decided it wasn’t worth lying about. “No, I wouldn’t,” he admitted.
Lathe grunted and finished his work in silence. Carefully, Marcovich tried moving his arms, but it was clear that his muscles were still a long way from full control. The blackcollars were going to get away…unless…
“By the way, my men took the batteries out of your communicator and emergency beacon when they picked you up,” Lathe said, getting to his feet and inspecting his handiwork. “Same for your laser. We thought your friends might try to track you that way once they noticed you were missing. Of course, you can try to get back and alert them, but since you don’t know where you are, I wouldn’t recommend it. My suggestion is to just sit here and enjoy what’s left of the sunshine until they come to find you.”
Marcovich gritted his teeth, his last brief surge of hope evaporating. “You blackcollars read minds, too?”
Lathe smiled faintly. “It’s how we survive. Thanks for your help, Security man.”
“Marcovich is the name,” he said, moved by an only dimly understood desire to be more than just another gray-green uniform to this man. “Miro Marcovich.”
Lathe nodded to him. “Thanks for your help, Marcovich,” he said. Producing the gag—a length of permatape—he carefully applied it across Marcovich’s mouth and around behind his neck. Then, turning away, he disappeared behind the trees.
And Marcovich was alone.
It took him the better part of an hour to get enough fine-motor control back to untie his feet. A quick inspection of his equipment showed the blackcollars had indeed left him no way to signal the rest of the Security cordon, and a few minutes of careful reconnoitering confirmed that he hadn’t the vaguest idea as to which way Trendor’s grounds were. And a permatape gag he knew better than to try to remove without the proper solvent.
With a tired sigh, he found a flat rock and propped himself up against it. There’d be a search party out eventually, and he wouldn’t be that hard to find. Though they probably wouldn’t be fast enough to catch the blackcollars and find out what the hell they’d injected him with.
Behind the permatape, he grimaced. Deep within him, he could feel the drug churning and grinding, tearing at his system like a canal digger. Changing his whole being…and gradually he came to realize that Lathe had been wrong.
The stuff was indeed going to kill him.
Leaning back against the rock, he closed his eyes and waited for the search party to come.
Chapter 40
ANNE SILCOX WAS WAITING in a faint pool of starlight outside Reger’s mansion as the two cars drove up. “The gate guards called and told us you were back,” she said as Lathe got out and trudged with the others up the steps. “I was hoping to talk to you—when you have time, of course.”
Lathe nodded and took her arm. “Let’s go inside,” he said. Signaling Skyler to take the others back to their quarters, he led Silcox in the other direction to the quiet and privacy of the main living room.
“Reger told me you were going to try and get inside Aegis Mountain,” she said as they sat down on a couch together. “I…did you…meet anyone?”
Lathe rubbed his forehead tiredly. “I’m sorry, Anne, they were all dead when we got there. A couple of months ago, from the looks of things.”
She took a deep breath, swallowed visibly. “I didn’t lie to you,” she said quietly. “I really didn’t know where they’d all gone. It wasn’t until Reger told me where you’d headed and I had time to think…Did you find out why they were there?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “They were manufacturing a drug called Whiplash, but we never figured out what it was supposed to do. Does the name mean anything to you?”
Her eyes seemed to come back from somewhere else. “No, not really,” she said dully. “They sometimes talked about Whiplash as a sort of sky-pie breakthrough that was supposed to free Earth from the Ryqril. But of course most of the projects had that as their goal. How…how did they die?”
“They were poisoned by leftover gas from the war.” Easing the pack off his shoulders, Lathe leaned back onto the couch and closed his eyes. He was tired—more tired than he could ever remember being since the end of the war itself. So much for retirement, he thought, half bitterly. The last of the blackcollars. Maybe Bernhard was right, after all. Maybe we’re the ones throwing our lives away for nothing.…
“You realize, I hope, that you’re making a mess of my couch.”
Lathe opened his eyes. “Hello, Reger. Nice to see you alive.”
The other grunted as he sat down in a chair across from them. “Yes, I’m rather pleased to be that way myself.”
“Tell me about it.”
“About the way Jensen said it would happen,” Reger said with an uncomfortable shrug. “Five of them came in, two nights ago, right along the keyhole path and loaded for mountain lion.” He shook his head in memory. “I tell you, Lathe, it was the goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Like shooting cats in a box. They never even had a chance.”
Lathe sighed. “If you expect me to be proud about it, you’re going to be disappointed. Blackcollars shouldn’t die like that.”
“But it wasn’t your fault, was it?” Silcox frowned. “I mean, it was Jensen who set the death house up and Reger who suckered Bernhard’s men into it. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it.”
“Leaders are responsible for what their men do,” Lathe told her. “You’ll understand that someday. Especially now that you’re in charge of Torch.”
“Me?” She looked startled.
“Who else? Someone’s got to rebuild the organization, and you’re the most reasonable candidate. Though if it helps any, you probably won’t have to start exactly from level zero. Isn’t that right, Reger?”
Reger scratched at his ear. “I don’t know, Lathe. You’re talking a hel
l of a lot of risk for not much gain. I’m in this business for the money and power, not to play Quixote for the nobility of it all.”
“What about the power that’ll be available when the Ryqril are thrown off Earth?” Lathe said. “You’ll be in a clear position to grab some of that when it happens.”
“If it happens,” the other countered. “You don’t have to go through all the arguments again—I remember them well enough. It’s just that I don’t see a hell of a lot of indication the roaches are busy packing their bags.”
“Wait a second,” Silcox said. “If you’re talking about me linking up with Reger’s streetlice operation, you can forget it. I’ve got higher standards than that.”
“You can’t afford to be choosy,” Lathe told her bluntly. “What, you think you and Kanai can start things up all by yourselves?”
“Kanai? Who said I was going to take him on, either?”
“Listen to her.” Reger snorted. “This is the patriot who’s going to lead all of us to freedom? You have to submit a full pedigree to even get in on the revolution.”
Silcox glared at him. “I can find more trustworthy teammates than you under the rocks in your yard,” she growled. “I may be young and inexperienced, but I’m capable of managing without you, thanks.”
Lathe sighed. “Anne, don’t be ridiculous. Maybe Reger’s current organization won’t work, but he’s got the contacts and information net to both find the people you need and to pull in all the other data a successful resistance group has to have. You, on the other hand, know more about the basic techniques of undercover operations than he does—and you’ve got access to the Torch safe houses, where I’d bet heavily there are some duplicate records and material hidden. Kanai, along with his obvious blackcollar training, knows where the back door to Aegis Mountain is if and when you ever find a real use for the place.”
“In other words,” Reger said heavily, “you’re saying that together we’re a reasonable team, but singly we’re just spinning our wheels. I suppose I agree—but only if all of us have the same goal. You still have to convince me there’s something in all of this for me. Spectacular political assassinations are fine in their place, but as a means of throwing the Ryqril off the planet I doubt they’re all that effective.”
“Who’s talking assassinations?” Lathe frowned. “I’m talking operations against Security forces and government installations.”
“Yes, and you’ve proved your point,” Reger said. “But remember that you had a whole flock of blackcollars on hand to help you infiltrate Trendor’s house—”
“To infiltrate what? Trendor who?”
“He’s the former Security prefect you assassinated this evening,” Silcox said. “Didn’t you even know his name?”
Lathe stared at her, shifted his gaze to Reger. “What are you two talking about? We didn’t kill anyone this—”
And suddenly it all clicked. “My God,” he whispered. “My God—Reger give me the details. What exactly happened to this Trendor?”
“He was shot down in his home in the mountains.” Reger’s face had an odd expression on it, as if he were wondering about Lathe’s sanity. “There was a massive laser fire fight in his defense—three of his Security guards were killed in that—but the intruders apparently escaped without anyone else seeing them. Are you saying it wasn’t you out there?”
Lathe took a deep breath. “Have your people find out which Security men died in the battle,” he told the other. “I’ll guarantee you Miro Marcovich will be one of the names.”
“You know him?” Silcox asked.
Lathe turned to her. Her face, like Reger’s, was wary…but behind the confusion the first hint of understanding was beginning to appear. “Yes,” he told her. “We kidnapped him this afternoon to test your friends’ Whiplash drug on…and he’s Trendor’s assassin.”
“That’s impossible,” Reger said. “Security men are loyalty-conditioned to be incapable…”
He trailed off. “My God,” he said, very softly.
Lathe let the silence hang in the room for a half-dozen heartbeats. Then, picking up his backpack, he got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I need to go and discuss this development with my men. You two might want to do the same, perhaps concentrating on the best ways to get Torch revitalized.”
Silcox took a deep breath and looked across at Reger. “Not Torch,” she said quietly. “Phoenix. A living torch, revived from its own ashes.”
Reger nodded thoughtfully. “Silly, really. But I suppose that kind of symbolism is important to such a group’s morale.” He hesitated, looked up at Lathe. “On your way out, Comsquare, would you mind asking Commando Kanai to join us?”
Lathe smiled faintly. “I’d be glad to.”
Epilogue
IT WAS COLONEL POIROT, not General Quinn, who eventually came to release him from detention—or rather, General Poirot, Galway noted, eying the other’s new insignia with some surprise. “Promoted just in time for the trial?” he said sourly as Poirot led the way down the hall.
Poirot grunted. “Not funny. The whole damn unit is in turmoil since Trendor got burned. You heard about that, I suppose?”
Galway nodded. “One of my guards filled me in.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t suppose he mentioned the Ryqril reaction to it all. There’s a Ryq in charge in the main Security office right now—a khassq-class warrior, no less. Quinn’s been taken away, God only knows where, and everyone in the entire upper command’s either been promoted or removed.”
Galway felt his jaw clench momentarily. So he’d been right, all the way down the line…and yet, even now he still had trouble believing it. Somehow, assassination just didn’t fit Lathe’s character. “So where are you taking me?” he asked Poirot. “They sending me home or down the hatch with Quinn?”
“I don’t know,” the other said heavily. “All I know is that there’s a Ryq fresh in from Plinry who wants to see you.”
“Oh, hell.” That scout ship that had left orbit right after the blackcollars’ big escape, destination almost certainly Plinry. Galway had almost forgotten about that, but whatever its mission had been, he had a strong suspicion he wasn’t going to like hearing about it.
There were two Ryqril standing stiffly by the rear corners of Quinn’s desk when they arrived, indistinguishable to human eyes except for the differing patterns in the ornate baldrics crossing their massive chests. “ ‘Re’ect Galray?” the one on the left said as Galway and Poirot paused just inside the office door.
“I am Galway,” the prefect identified himself, speaking with some difficulty around the sudden lump in his throat. On both alien baldrics were the distinctive patterns of the khassq-class warriors, the highest stratum of Ryqril society.
“I am Taakh—rarriaer khassq,” the same Ryq identified himself with a brief touch of his paw to his baldric. The laser and short sword on his belt jiggled with the motion, and Galway swallowed again.
“Other man—lea’ us,” the second Ryq said. Poirot bowed briefly and backed hastily out.
For a moment the aliens eyed Galway in silence. Then Taakh stirred, gesturing to a cassette lying on the desk. “The re’el shuttle has lekht Earth,” he said, giving the words their usual Ryqril mangling. “Did the ’lackcollars go rith it?”
Galway licked his lips, resisting the impulse to say that he had no idea. Obviously, they knew that. What they wanted was for him to look over the available data and give them his opinion on the matter. A test of some sort.…Stepping forward, he picked up the cassette and slid it into the reader.
It was a complete record of the shuttle pickup from Denver that morning, including both tapes from the port and Athena’s radar records of its departure path. Galway studied it closely for several minutes, acutely conscious of the silent aliens towering over him a bare meter away. But this wasn’t something he could afford to rush.
Finally, he looked up. “I can’t prove it,” he said carefully, “but the blackcollars cou
ld have left with the shuttle.”
“Ex’lain,” Taakh ordered.
Galway took a deep breath. “Here—at the ’port—they took on several large crates, one of which contained a fully assembled high-powered winch. While they were flying over the mountains here”—he located the spot on the record—“they claimed to have temporarily lost power and dipped below the intervening mountain peaks almost to ground level. They were out of your view long enough to have grabbed a snag-equipped pod and to winch it aboard. Again, I don’t know if they actually did so or not.”
“They did,” Taakh said. “Satellite ’hoto shor it ’eyond do’rt. Too late to sto’ they. Yae are the nan re can use.”
“The man—use for what?” Galway asked cautiously.
The second Ryq stirred. “On ’Linry the ’lackcollars ’enetrated the encla’e and took the hostages.”
A shiver went up Galway’s spine. The enclave. Once again Lathe had pulled off the impossible, right under the Ryqril’s collective snout…and in the process had hung Plinry from a thread. “I didn’t Jonow what they’d done,” he said quietly. “I thought they might try to free Pittman’s family, but…” I thought they were well enough guarded, he finished the thought to himself.
“Yae think like they.” The Ryq nodded, the very human gesture looking totally out of place on his alien physique. “Yae rill hel’ us ca’ture they.”
It took several heartbeats for the significance of that to sink in—and as it did Galway felt a surge of relief flood through him. Capture, not destroy…and capture implied no mass destruction on Plinry. “I—yes, sir, of course I’ll help in any way I can,” he managed. “But capturing them will be extremely hard, if not impossible. Wouldn’t it be easier to just try and eliminate them?”
The two Ryqril exchanged glances. “They dae the in’ossi’le,’ Taakh said, as if that was explanation enough.
Galway opened his mouth…then closed it again as it suddenly made sense. Lathe’s men invading the allegedly impregnable Ryqril Enclave; Lathe himself getting to Trendor despite all the guards. There was no way to pretend anymore that Argent had been a fluke. The blackcollars were, pure and simple, breakers of impossible odds…and in the war against the Chryselli perhaps such odds were beginning to stack up. The Ryqril had tried twice now to trail the blackcollars in hopes of snatching whatever they might be after, with disastrous results both times. But the Ryqril were clearly not ready to give up…and somewhere in the upper echelons of their military, the blackcollars’ status had apparently been changed again.
