Blackcollar: The Blackcollar

by Timothy Zahn

  Lathe held his eyes another second, then nodded curtly and stepped back. "All right. Let's get moving."

  CHAPTER 7

  The last few wispy clouds had been blown away by the time they left the lodge, and the stars were blazing down with a brilliance Caine had never seen from Earth. He hardly noticed them, though; there were more important things on his mind.

  The van was crowded. Along with Lathe and Caine were Mordecai, Dawis Hawking, and a wizened old blackcollar Lathe identified as Tardy Spadafora. The latter, who was driving, followed Mordecai's earlier route into the city. But as they approached the Hub, he made a slight detour, stopping near the gray wall. When he started up again, he and Caine were alone.

  Minutes later, they coasted to a halt twenty meters from the brightly lit east gate. Setting his teeth, Caine took the heavy briefcase by Spadafora's seat and got out, striving for nonchalance as he walked toward the floodlights. His coat and pants concealed all of his flexarmor outfit except his boots—which looked enough like current styles to go unnoticed—but it still took an eternity to reach the nearest of the two outside guards. Handing over his ID, he waited another eternity for the Security man to look it over and give the signal. Seconds later, Caine was inside the Hub.

  Autocabs were routinely kept at the Hub's gates during low-demand hours, so Caine had no trouble with transportation. Following his instructions, he arrived a few minutes later at a cul-de-sac ending by the wall. The apartment buildings lining the street were dark, most of the tenants apparently having turned in for the night. A missing light by one of the outside stairways was creating a large wedge of shadow, and Caine stepped into it to await developments.

  "Any trouble?" a voice murmured from the darkness, and Caine nearly wrenched his neck spinning around. Lathe crouched a bare meter away; behind him, Mordecai and Hawking were rising to their feet.

  "No—none," Caine said. "I left my outerwear under the seat, okay?"

  "Fine. I'll take that," Lathe said, pointing to the briefcase. "Call an autocab, will you?"

  Caine handed over the case and triggered his hailer, wondering only briefly why he hadn't simply been told to keep the cab he'd arrived in. Clearly, Lathe didn't want to leave too clear a trail through tonight's events. Looking back down the street, he could see approaching headlights.

  "We're not taking the briefcase?" he whispered as Lathe joined him at the edge of the shadow.

  The blackcollar shook his head. "It's for Skyler's team—their shuriken, knives, and other metal equipment. We couldn't bring them over the wall; there's an induction field along the top and outer face that would have triggered an alarm."

  Caine glanced back at the imposing gray barrier with some surprise. "You went over the wall? I thought there were sensors built into the surface to prevent that."

  "There are," Lathe agreed. "But the wall was built by forced labor—and we were among the workers. Certain patches of the surface were specially treated to age faster than the rest. They've since flaked off, taking their sensors with them."

  "Why didn't the Ryqril replace them?"

  Lathe shrugged. "Why should they? It looks like random decay, and the remaining sensors would detect any ladder or lifter. But if you follow the proper path you can climb the thing without setting off its defenses."

  The autocab arrived and the four men piled in. "Where to?" Caine asked, hand poised over the map.

  "A hundred meters past the Records Building," Lathe said. "I want to get a look at the place."

  Caine touched the appropriate spot on the map. Silently, the autocab headed down the empty street.

  The air in the Apex Club was thick with the dank smoke of hasta sticks mixed with the odor of beer and cheap hot-pots. Sitting alone at a table near the low stage, Samm Durbin gazed around the room and tried to gauge the mood of the two-hundred-odd teen-agers crammed into the club. Angry, he decided. A rumor about a new government jobs scheme had been officially quashed less than an hour ago, and the loss of even this flicker of hope was sitting poorly with the mostly unemployed young patrons. The lighting manager had sensed the mood, and the flashing light patterns were leaning heavily toward reds, their frequency nervous and slightly irritating. When the crowd was like this, Durbin knew, it followed a standard pattern: lots of beer would flow as the teens tried to get drunk; the music would give them a chance to dance away their frustration; and finally, numbed and broke, they would trudge home. Occasionally a fist fight would break out, but that was the worst things ever got. High sales, minimal risk—few businesses this close to the hated wall could do so well. No wonder the management encouraged angry crowds.

  Tonight, though, was going to be different.

  On the stage the group struck their first chord, a harsh dissonance that told Durbin they'd picked up on the crowd's mood, too. Sipping his steaming hot-pot, Durbin stole a glance at his watch. Four songs, maybe five, and it would be time to move.

  Even in the middle of the night several of the Records Building's windows showed lights. Hugging the building across the street, Caine gazed at the four-floor brick edifice, wondering how many people were in there. It hadn't really registered at the time, but Lathe's comment during the autocab ride that this place was guarded by another induction field alarm meant they would be going in practically unarmed. The three blackcollars had their nunchakus and Hawking also sported a wooden slingshot with stones for ammunition. And that was it. A single guard with a laser could take all four of them. Sweating under his flexarmor, Caine wondered if there was still time to call the whole thing off.

  The three blackcollars finished their whispered consultation and Lathe pointed Caine to the rear corner of the Records Building. "That looks about the best spot; out of the way and no lights showing. We'll cross one at a time—you're third. You'll feel a tingling near the wall, but ignore it."

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Lathe glanced both directions down the street and set off in a deceptively fast lope. Hawking was next; and then it was Caine's turn. He ran as fast as he could without sacrificing silence, but it still seemed to take him twice as long as it had the others. He reached the target corner to find Lathe already two meters up the wall, gripping the bricks with the aid of plastic crampons. By the time Mordecai arrived, Lathe was gently testing the latch on the nearest second-floor window.

  That particular latch was apparently a good one; Lathe abandoned it and inched his way across the wall to the next window. He had better luck there, and within seconds had it open. Disappearing inside, he reappeared almost immediately and gave the others a hand signal. Tapping Caine's shoulder, Hawking braced himself against the bricks and cupped his hands. Stepping up, Caine pushed off the ground with his other foot, walking his hands up the wall as Hawking pushed upward. The tingling was strongest right next to the building, and Caine's hands were a bit numb as he reached for the sill. Lathe grabbed his arm and gave him an assist through the window into a small office. Scrambling back to his feet, Caine turned to offer a hand to the next one up. Two hands—Mordecai's—were already gripping the sill; poking his head out, Caine saw that Hawking was literally climbing up the smaller man, finding handholds on boots, belt, and shoulder. He reached the window and entered unassisted. Mordecai followed, closing the window behind him.

  Lathe was across the room, listening at the door. As Caine and the others joined him, he cracked the panel open. Muted light poured in as Lathe looked both directions and then opened the door just enough to sidle out. The others followed into a dim hallway lined with doors.

  "One floor up, right?" Lathe whispered.

  Caine nodded. "Right. Stairway's that direction."

  They reached the stairs without seeing anyone. One flight up, Lathe stealthily opened the stairwell door and looked out. Just as stealthily, he closed it again.

  "Guards?" Caine whispered.

  "A Ryq," Lathe whispered back, sliding his nunchaku from its sheath.

  Caine's heart skipped a beat. What was an alien doing here, e
specially at this time of night?"

  "Out late, isn't he?" Mordecai suggested softly. He didn't seem overly concerned.

  "Yes, but I'm not worried," Lathe told him. "He wasn't armed more than usual and was talking amicably enough with one of the night staff."

  "Think they suspect anything?" Hawking asked. "Or is this just a spot inspection?"

  "The latter, I'd say."

  "Shouldn't we be doing something?" Caine broke in nervously. Not armed more than usual meant the alien was wearing both a wide-bladed short sword and a very lethal hand laser. "What if he comes in here?"

  "Relax," Hawking advised him. "He's not going to bother with any stairwells. We just have to wait here until he leaves. There's enough slack in our timing to accommodate him."

  "Unless you'd rather attack," Lathe suggested mildly.

  Caine shivered. The thought of fighting even an unarmed Ryq would have made his stomach tighten, and he felt a flash of anger at Lathe for making light of a very real danger.

  In the distance an elevator motor began whining. Lathe waited until the sound stopped and then peeked out the door again. This time he continued on into the hall.

  Unlike the floor below, there were only two doors opening off this hallway. One, on the right-hand side, had a glass panel set into it, through which bright light was streaming. Lathe gestured toward it, eyebrows raised questioningly. "The main records computer," Caine whispered. "The archive tapes are stored across the hall, if the lobby floor plan was correct."

  Lathe nodded and motioned to Hawking. Together they moved down the hall, Lathe taking a careful look through the computer room window as Hawking crouched low and tested the doorknob opposite. After a moment they both returned.

  "Door's locked," Hawking reported.

  "Mine, too," Lathe said. "Four operator types inside."

  "Straight frontal?" Mordecai murmured.

  Lathe shook his head. "They're too far away. However, the room's two stories high and there's a wide cable tray spanning it about three meters up, with a service hatch at each end. Take a look."

  Mordecai went to the door and glanced inside. Returning, he gestured back and all four men retreated again to the stairwell. "No problem," Mordecai said. Without further comment he headed up the stairs.

  "Where's he going?" Caine asked.

  "To clear out the computer room," Lathe told him in an abstracted tone.

  "Alone?"

  Lathe gave him a patient look. "Caine, Mordecai just happens to be the best hand-to-hand fighter I've ever seen—possibly the best that's ever lived. He won't have any trouble in there."

  "Time to go," Hawking murmured a moment later.

  Lathe nodded and—after checking the hall—led the way back to the computer room. Glancing cautiously through the window, he motioned for Caine to look.

  The room was indeed large, with much of the central area taken up by a "pillar computer" of pre-war human design. Lining the walls were peripheral units of various sorts, and the hum of cooling fans could be heard even through the door. Next to the pillar was a control station; grouped around it were the four operators Lathe had mentioned. Almost directly above them, crawling carefully along the overhead cable tray, was Mordecai.

  Caine's heart was pounding painfully, and he licked his dry lips without obvious effect. No matter how good Mordecai might have once been, the odds here were lousy. All one of them had to do was look up and it was all over. And even if he took them by surprise, it was still four to one. Hands itching for a weapon, Caine watched helplessly as Mordecai reached position above the control station—and, down the hall, the elevator opened.

  Caine spun as a sharp whap sounded, and he caught just a glimpse of the startled guard's expression as he collapsed in a heap, blocking the elevator door. Slingshot ready for a second shot, Hawking glided over and pulled the crumpled form free. As the elevator closed, Caine glanced back into the computer room, wondering if the noise had alerted the operators. What he saw made him look again.

  All four men were unconscious, either stretched out on the floor or slumped over their console. Mordecai, a set of keys in hand, was striding toward the door.

  He reached it and opened up as Hawking arrived with the guard he'd stunned. Without comment, Mordecai handed Lathe the keys and helped Hawking drag his burden into the computer room.

  "Caine!" Lathe called from the other door. "Come here and get your tape."

  Numbly, Caine stepped across the hall. Four men, dropped where they stood or sat... and it didn't look like Mordecai had even drawn his nunchaku.

  Lathe found the right key and he and Caine entered the room. Flicking on the light, Caine found himself facing several rows of floor-to-ceiling-length shelves holding hundreds of tape containers. "A lot of records," Lathe grunted.

  "Everything for this sector since the TDE began," Caine said, scanning the shelf labels. "The one I want is in this direction. Why don't you go to that side and grab three tapes at random?"

  "Good idea."

  A minute later they were back at the door with three boxes apiece. Mordecai had taken up a guard post by the computer room door; inside, Hawking was seated at the computer console, studying the controls.

  "Ever run a collie computer?" Hawking asked Caine as they joined him.

  "No, but I've been pretty well trained in computers generally."

  "Fine." Hawking stood up and reached for the tapes. "You run it. I'll load these for you."

  The procedure took less than three minutes. Once the six tapes were mounted, Caine read two records from each onto a blank cassette. Eleven red herrings, drawn at random, and that one very special record. He found his hands trembling slightly as he withdrew the cassette and rewound the tapes. "Done."

  Hawking looked at Lathe. "Do we return the tapes?"

  "No, we'd better get moving. Mordecai, did you pick up a hailer? Good—I don't want to use Caine's any more than necessary. We'll leave by the front door; the induction field control's probably there."

  They trooped down the hall together. As they entered the elevator, Caine sneaked a glance at Lathe. The old blackcollar's expression—what Caine could see of it under the battle-hood and goggles—was not that of a man whose task is nearly done. Caine shivered, but kept his questions to himself. Whatever else Lathe had planned, he would learn about it soon enough.

  The briefcase was right where Lathe had said he would leave it. Crouching in the relative darkness, Skyler quickly emptied it, keeping an eye on the street. Hopefully, the faint whine of a car he could hear approaching was evidence that Braune and Pittman had been successful. Even as he closed the briefcase the vehicle rounded the corner, turned down the street, and then U-turned to face the cul-de-sac's entrance. Seconds later it was rolling again, with Skyler inside.

  "Any trouble?" the blackcollar asked as he passed out knives, throwing stars, and short-range radio gear.

  Woody Pittman, who was driving, shook his head. "None," he said. "Braune had it unlocked in half a minute."

  Skyler nodded. He wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of taking two novice trainees on a raid into the collies' stronghold—but as long as he had to do so, Pittman and Stef Braune were the best possible choices for the job. Pittman, especially: twenty-two years old, with five years of secret combat training under his belt, he had shed the rashness of youth and was beginning to develop the calculating mentality that made for a good fighter. Braune, three years younger, had the same characteristics at a more undeveloped stage. For the umpteenth time Skyler wished they'd had some of the Backlash drug when the planet went under. Without it none of Plinry's youthful fighters would ever have a blackcollar's super-fast reflexes. Still... Skyler studied Pittman's face out of the corner of his eye. Alert, determined, with that trace of fear that made for caution. Backlash or no, the kid was going to be a good fighter someday.

  Most of the lights that blazed from the Department of Planetary Security were on the first floor: the night shift of those guardians of Ryqril intere
sts. The most dangerous place in the whole city for a blackcollar to be, but at least he'd have the use of his throwing knives and other weapons. With armed Security men going in and out at all hours, an induction field alarm was impractical. Lathe's mission was potentially a lot riskier, and Skyler wondered briefly how his friend was doing.

  Pittman stopped the car across from the Security building, and he and Skyler slid out opposite sides as Braune took the wheel and continued down the street. Pittman vanished into a shadowy doorway to stand guard as Skyler, loosening his knives in their forearm and belt sheathes, headed across the street.

  The main doors were large and imposing and, providentially, inset with lots of windows. Standing off to one side, Skyler peered inside. A short, glassed-in foyer led directly into a larger room dominated by a reception desk. One Security man lounged at the desk, fiddling with a pocket knife; two others leaned against the wall facing him, apparently just chatting. The standees were armed; Skyler could assume the desk man was, too. First target would be the latter, the only one within reach of the various alarm buttons. The others would have to be taken before they could draw. Nunchaku in his left hand, knife in his right, Skyler pulled open the outer door, crossed the foyer in two strides, and emerged into the reception area.

  They had turned when he opened the outer door, but astonishment had frozen their muscles—frozen them long enough, in fact, that Skyler decided to risk an act of mercy. "All right; no one move," he ordered in his most authoritative voice... and the spell holding them vanished like a soap bubble.

  The desk man lunged toward his control buttons and was knocked backward by the impact of Skyler's knife hilt between his eyes. The other two, still standing together like amateurs, were clawing at their holsters as the nunchaku spun through the air to catch them both across the forehead. One went down instantly; the other, dazed, nevertheless kept his feet until Skyler finished the job with a backfist punch behind the ear.

  Ears cocked for sounds of an alarm, Skyler retrieved his weapons, checking the fallen guards as he did so. Two of them would be out for the duration of his stay. The third—the desk man—was out forever.