by Timothy Zahn
A faint humming from his captured laser was all the warning he got, but he acted on it instantly. Hurling the weapon away from him, he flattened himself against the wall just as the laser exploded, sending bits of metal ricocheting from the walls and Lathe's flexarmor. He turned around cautiously, scanning the walls for the induction resonators that had blown the laser's powerpack. He should have expected something like that, he berated himself; elevators and stairways were about the only places that that kind of resonance cavity could be set up. Taking a deep breath, he continued down to the next landing and carefully cracked the door.
The hallway, resembling the one he'd just left, was similarly deserted. Stepping from the stairwell, Lathe glanced both directions and headed down the hall to his right, an uneasy feeling seeping into him. Certainly the hall should be clear of civilians—they'd had ample time to lock themselves in their offices by now—but surely all the guards hadn't gone chasing upstairs after him. The loudspeaker, which had announced his entry into the stairwell, had gone ominously silent. Almost certainly there was a trap already waiting down here for him, and he had to find and neutralize it before Security could bring up more men from the main prison below.
Reaching the floor's central corridor, he paused to glance around the corner—and barely got his head back before concentrated laser fire struck the wall, the thermal shock blasting chips from the masonry. Snatching a shuriken, he flipped it blindly around the corner. But the action was more reflex than anything else; his single glance had been enough to show him his mission had just ended. A minimum of ten guards had been visible, arrayed in standing and kneeling semicircles around a glass door that was almost undoubtedly the computer room. Either they'd guessed his target or the man he'd asked directions from upstairs had finally found his voice. The guards, though heavily armed, had been unarmored, and Lathe knew he could eventually beat them down... but he also knew he couldn't single-handedly take on a whole prison. Turning, he sprinted back for the stairway, hoping he wouldn't find the stairs to the roof in enemy hands.
By some miracle the landing was still empty as he charged through the stairway door—but it was instantly clear that that was about to change. The whole stairwell echoed with the sound of running feet, coming from both above and below him. Grimacing, Lathe unlimbered his nunchaku and started up.
The stairwell loudspeaker had resumed calling out his movements, but with all the noise perhaps the six Security men charging downstairs never heard that he was coming toward them—either that or they didn't really understand how dangerous a blackcollar could be in close quarters. Whichever, they came clattering down with no attempt at caution or tactical spacing. The front rank began firing as soon as he appeared, their aim understandably erratic. Ignoring the deadly lances of light sweeping through the air around him, Lathe snatched a throwing star and, with all the accuracy he could muster, sent it threading through the mob to strike the last man in line... and as those just ahead of the dead guard learned first-hand about the domino effect, the blackcollar hurled his nunchaku spinning into the faces of those in front. Seldom before had Lathe seen such a standard uphill attack work so well; within a second the entire group of soldiers was tumbling helplessly down the stairs. Scooping up the nunchaku, Lathe grabbed the banister and vaulted over the tangle. The remaining steps he took three at a time.
They'd left two men in the fifteenth floor hallway as backup, but they weren't really ready for him and a pair of throwing stars cleared the path. Hurrying down the corridor, Lathe retraced his earlier route, hoping the man who'd been guarding the entrance to the roof stairway had left.
He hadn't. The muzzle of a laser rifle was still poking around the far corner as the blackcollar turned into the central hallway. Hurling a shuriken at the single visible eye, Lathe increased his speed, trying to reach the stairway door before the guard could line up a clean shot.
The attempt was only partially successful. The shuriken missed completely, apparently whipping by so quickly the guard didn't even have time to duck back. His first shot grazed Lathe's left thigh; his second went over the blackcollar's head as Lathe launched himself into a flat dive and somersault that took him to within a few meters of the stairway door. Still in a crouch, he threw four more shuriken in rapid succession, finally managing to force the gunner back long enough to cover the remaining distance and get the door open. Another burst of fire hit the metal panel as he bounded into the stairway and headed up.
For the past few minutes he'd been ignoring the continuous stream of orders and comments Skyler had been feeding into the air waves; orders, he knew, that should be giving Security's listeners reasons why the blackcollars' ground attack had not yet begun. Now, Lathe boosted power on his own microphone and cut in. "Ready-one, this is leader one," he called. "Abort mission, ready-one; repeat, abort."
"Ready-one received," Skyler's voice crackled, sounding tight. "Exit visa away. Did you get it?"
"Negative. Pull back and disperse."
"Acknowledged. Better hurry; vultures on the rise."
Which meant Skyler had spotted patrol boats approaching. He had to get off the roof quickly or risk having his escape route blocked.
He emerged on the rooftop to find a new blue-and-white-striped missile resting in a bubbling pool, its trailing line disappearing off the roof in the direction of Skyler's building. Low in the sky beyond, he could see four sleek patrol boats rapidly closing on the city.
The adhesive took thirty seconds to solidify, and in that time four Security men charged out the door directly into Lathe's nunchaku. For once, the roles were reversed, with Lathe in the relatively safe defensive position. He only hoped that the rest of the guards that were undoubtedly gathering would hold off long enough for him to get safely to Skyler's building before they attacked.
"Ready," Skyler said, and Lathe left the door at a dead run, adjusting the pulley on his left wrist as he traveled. Barely slowing down as he reached the low parapet, he snapped the pulley onto the line and launched himself into space.
The wind of his passage buffeted him as he slid down the taut line. Beneath him the prison yard and Strip wail swept past, and he caught a glimpse of eight Security cars pulled up by the prison fence, their occupants firing wildly at him. But most of the half-minute trip remained afterwards a blur of agony as the tension on his left arm pulled his flexarmor tightly against his burned shoulder.... It was almost a shock when Skyler suddenly loomed ahead of him, arms outstretched to break his momentum.
"You okay?" the big blackcollar asked anxiously as Lathe unfastened his pulley.
"I'll live," Lathe assured him, removing his gas filter. "Nice job, Skyler; my skin is indebted to you. Don't bother with anything except the eavesdropper—the rest can be replaced, and there'll be collies crawling all over this building any minute now."
"Okay by me. Hang on a second, though...." Reaching down, Skyler picked up his launcher's trigger grip and squeezed it, sending one last missile flashing into the sky. Lathe turned, watching as it dropped into the gap where the Avis Street gate had stood earlier that day. Three Security patrol car's, racing from the Strip toward that exit, swerved violently to avoid the explosion. One of them didn't make it.
"That should hold up the pursuit a bit," Skyler said blandly, tossing the trigger grip aside. "Did you get everything done in there that you wanted to?"
Pulling off his goggles and battle-hood, Lathe took a deep breath of fresh air. The gentle breeze felt cold on his sweaty skin. "I think so," he said. "Let's go home; it's been a busy morning."
CHAPTER 18
The radio code used by Argent Security was just different enough from Plinry's system to be incomprehensible to Prefect Jamus Galway as the patrol car maneuvered through the crowded Calarand streets. But that crisp tone of voice and his driver's impotent swearing were all too familiar.
Somewhere, Lathe's blackcollars had struck.
Calarand was larger in both directions than any city Galway had ever seen, and he looked ar
ound with interest and some envy as they drove toward its center. Despite occasional war scars the buildings were generally in better shape than those of Capstone; the pedestrians walking along the street were better dressed and fed; and there were a lot more vehicles. Apparently Argent had accepted the inevitable early on, surrendering before something like the Groundfire attack became necessary. The moral was obvious. Perhaps Lathe was just a slow learner.
A thin trail of smoke was rising into the air ahead and slightly to their left. "Are we going past that smoke up there?" Galway asked the driver.
The other shook his head. "Too risky. The rebels might still be around."
"I doubt it. Blackcollars tend to hit fast and pull out. I'd like to see what they've done."
The driver gave him a sideways glance. "Well... all right." Picking up his phone, he reported the change in route.
The gate area was a mess. The smoke was coming from a burned-out patrol car that had crashed into the dirty-white wall. Crashed after it had been hit, he noted; the blast pattern from an airborne missile was evident in the twisted metal. The gate itself was crumpled off to both sides. Galway shivered as the car moved slowly through the Security, fire, and medical people swarming around the area. It was too reminiscent of the aftermath on Plinry.
The driver obviously didn't like the sight, either—or perhaps the white knuckles and hard stares of the guards who passed them through made him nervous. He sped up as soon as they were clear of the bedlam, and the area was soon lost behind them. A few blocks brought them to a second metal-mesh gate, this one stronger looking than the first. The wall it was set into looked like the one enclosing Capstone's Hub; tall and gray, with an induction field sensor system. The outside guards looked as edgy as those back at the ruined gate had, and the four inside men had their lasers raised. The ID check was no simple visual, either—portable equipment was brought out to take both men's finger and retina prints. Gazing down the laser muzzles, it seemed to take forever for the city computer to finish its comparison. But at last it did so, and a few minutes later the car pulled up to an impressive white building.
A dignified-looking man with colonel's insignia was waiting at the curb. "Prefect Galway? I'm Colonel Eakins, head of Security for Calarand. Sorry I couldn't meet you at the spaceport, but we've been busy this morning. Please come along—Perfect Apostoleris is waiting."
"I couldn't understand much of what was coming in over the radio," Galway said as they entered the building. "What was it, a guerrilla raid?"
"We're still trying to figure it out. It was supposed to be only a soft probe."
An elevator ride and two short corridors brought them to a conference room. A pile of tapes and papers sat on a reader-equipped table. "I'll get the prefect; you can start reading what we've got so far," Eakins said, pointing him toward the stack before vanishing back out the door. Sitting down at the table, Galway began to skim the papers. He was about a third of the way through when Eakins returned with a short, heavyset man.
Galway stood up as Eakins made the introductions. "Galway," Prefect Apostoleris nodded in greeting, his eyes measuring the other briefly. "Excuse me for dropping your title, but there's only one Security Prefect on Argent and I'm it. Sit, sit; let's see what you've brought us."
Galway sat down slowly as the others took seats across from him. Opening his briefcase, he pulled out the stack of files and handed them over. Apostoleris took the top one off and flipped through its pages. He opened the second briefly, then reached for a tape and slid it into the reader. The screen lit up, and Galway found himself looking at a room containing several cots. Lying on the cots or moving among them were half a dozen black-clad men.
"Recognize any of them?" Apostoleris asked.
Galway leaned forward slightly. "I'd say that, from left to right, you've got Dawis Hawking, Freeman Vale, James Novak, and Mordecai. The big one lying down is probably either Charles Kwon or Kelly O'Hara, and the one at far right is Alain Rienzi, from Earth."
"Very good. Except that Rienzi's going by the name Allen Caine here. That name ring any bells?"
Galway considered, then shook his head. "Where did you get the tape?"
"One of our spies," Apostoleris said shortly, changing tapes. "All right, now, what about these?"
This one was audio, and Galway listened to the four voices in growing fascination as he realized what it was. "Leader One is Comsquare Damon Lathe," he told them. "Leader Two is Kwon, and Spotter One is Rafe Skyler. I'm not sure about the other one." He looked at Eakins. "This the raid they just pulled?"
"Yes and no," the colonel said. "One of them—Leader One, we think—slid down a line to Henslowe Prison, came in the roof door, and damn near got into the records room two floors down before escaping. But the rest of their operation never materialized. We're still not sure whether it was real or just a feint."
Galway was still struggling with the first part. "He got in and out? Weren't there guards—?"
"Of course there were," Apostoleris snapped. "He demolished eighteen of them along the way—six of them dead."
"Oh." Galway winced inwardly; but mixed in with the sympathetic pain was a tiny nugget of personal vindication. At least he wasn't the only one who'd underestimated the blackcollars.
"Never mind that for now." Apostoleris tapped the files. "This everything you've got on them?"
Galway nodded. "I'll warn you that the personal information—"
"Is worthless. I don't care about that. What I really want is whatever old pictures you've got."
Galway understood. "There's a chronological set near the end of each file, taken three years apart."
Apostoleris shuffled through the first file until he located the photos. "Damn. Face covered up by beard on most of these. You should've ordered him to shave."
"On what grounds? They weren't criminals—they'd received a complete amnesty when they surrendered."
Apostoleris's response was a snort. Gathering up the files, he headed for the door. "I guess it's better than nothing. I'll be back in a minute."
The door closed behind him, and Galway looked over at Eakins, wondering what to say. Surprisingly, the colonel chuckled. "Fearsome, isn't he? Don't worry, he'll cool off when things are under control again."
"That's good to know. I thought he was mad at me personally." He nodded toward the door. "I'm not sure how much those photos would have helped even if they hadn't been wearing beards. Going back to normal Idunine dosages after so long won't bring them back to exactly the same facial structures."
"I know. So does the prefect. But he's worried enough to take anything at this point."
"Are you? Worried, I mean."
Eakins's face was grim. "An hour and a half ago we had three of your blackcollars trapped like lizards in an ice pit. They escaped, broke into the medium-security area called the Strip, broke back out of it; and then, having gotten completely clear, came back in and tried to get to Henslowe's records before escaping for good. You bet I'm worried." He pulled the tape of the raid from the machine and put it on the pile. "Look, Prefect—"
" 'Galway' will do, Colonel. You heard what Prefect Apostoleris said."
A quick smile. "Okay, Galway. Look, we didn't just bring you here to play escort to those files. Your blackcollars went to an incredible amount of trouble to get here—ditto and a half for this Caine. We need to know why."
"Can't your spies tell you? I assumed you had the underground fairly well infiltrated."
"Oh, we do. We've got agents from one end of Radix to the other. But so far all we know is that Lathe wants to bring together all the old veterans of the TDE Star Force. At the moment they're all locked in Henslowe, which is probably why he went there today."
"I wondered about that...." Galway pondered. "I don't know what to tell you. They broke into the archives on Plinry and recorded sections of six tapes—we know which parts but not what they needed them for. Everything else they did, I think, was just designed to get them their freighter and Corsa
ir."
Eakins sat up straighter. "They took a Corsair too?"
"Yes. I saw it lift myself. Didn't it arrive?"
"Not to my knowledge." Frowning, the colonel touched a button on the reader. "Get me Data Search."
"Data Search; Vetter."
"Eakins. Pull all records on Corsairs entering Argent system in the past two weeks, including Ryqril military data if you can get it."
"Yes, sir."
Eakins switched off. "This may not do any good. Corsairs have a bundle of sensor shielding gear, and if it came in on low drive with everything running only the Ryqril would have detected it. It's possible they let him land without telling us."
"To interrogate him?"
"Or else he was already one of theirs," Eakins said uncomfortably.
Galway tapped his fingertips idly on the table. He'd had the same thoughts about Rienzi—Caine—once. "I've heard blackcollars can't be loyalty-conditioned, though. And it's hard to believe a fake one could fool the rest that long."
"Oh, it's possible. Believe me." He shook his head. "But it doesn't make sense in this case. Why would the Ryqril play along with them if they could have quashed it back on Plinry?"
"Well, clearly the blackcollars are looking for something. The Plinry archives had part of the puzzle and the Star Force vets must have another." Galway frowned. "Lathe told me before they left that revolt wasn't his immediate goal, and also that I'd find out someday what they were up to. That implies it's something big. Maybe the Ryqril are going to hold off until they find it before moving in."
"Possible," Eakins conceded. "If blackcollars really can't be mind-probed that would be the only way to do it. And the Ryqril are interested; they passed some information to us just this morning. Not that it helped much." He shook his head, as if still not believing it.
"You haven't had much experience with blackcollars?" Galway probed gently.
"There are some left on Argent, scattered through Radix. But they've kept to more limited forms of action. Supply shipment hijackings, occasional bombings—harassment, really. This open warfare stuff is new to us."
