by Timothy Zahn
Galway smiled bitterly. "Tell me about it."
The door opened and Apostoleris strode in. "All right," he said, as if the conversation had never been interrupted, "let's discuss our next move. It seems clear that someone we're holding in Henslowe is vital to whatever Lathe is trying to accomplish. Our reports say he wants all the vets, but his actions today suggest a single man among them might have what he wants. Since we don't yet know who, we'll have to put all of them beyond his reach."
"Can we increase the guard at Henslowe?" Eakins asked.
"Not enough." The prefect shook his head. "Henslowe's too vulnerable, too accessible to outsiders. I think this morning adequately proved that. We're going to move them—that much I've already decided. The question is where."
"Why not split them up?" Galway suggested. "Scatter them around the planet in groups of five or ten."
"Because we don't have enough men to guard that many groups," Apostoleris said, with contempt.
"You assume they're looking for a single man and that they know who he is," Galway answered, piqued in spite of himself at the prefect's attitude. "For all we know, they could need information from ten of them. And even if it is only one, odds are a dispersion would drop him halfway around the planet."
Again Apostoleris shook his head. "Good points, but consider the possibility that this whole thing is an elaborate feint. In that case we'd be committing suicide if we tied up that many men on guard duty. No, we need some place both inaccessible and relatively easy to guard. Aboard an orbiting troop carrier, maybe. That would be out of Lathe's reach."
Galway and Eakins exchanged glances. "Possibly not, sir," the colonel said slowly. "A Corsair lifted with them from Plinry. I've got Data Search trying to find out if it's landed here or not."
Apostoleris picked up one of the tapes and fingered it idly, frowning. "Hmm. Well, even with a ship they'd have trouble getting to the prisoners up there... but they could decide to kill them rather than let us learn their secret." He shook his head decisively. "No, I'm not giving Lathe that option. I suppose that leaves Cerbe Prison."
Galway looked at Eakins and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "It's a converted fortress a hundred kilometers southeast of Calarand," the colonel explained. "High-security place. Not really designed for so many prisoners, though."
"We'll manage," Apostoleris said. "They won't be there very long. We can have them all interrogated in a few weeks, and when we find the one—or ones," he added, nodding at Galway—"the rest can be returned to Henslowe. Comments?"
For a moment there was silence. "All right," the prefect said. "Eakins, get this Corsair business nailed down. I'll call Cerbe and start making arrangements for the transfer. Galway, you might as well keep reading the reports. Maybe you'll come up with something useful. Questions? Fine; get busy."
He was out the door almost before the others could stand up. With a reassuring smile, Eakins followed his boss out, leaving Galway alone with the pile of reports.
Frowning, Galway looked at the stack. It seemed so reasonable... and yet, there was something about it he didn't like at all. The prison raid, perhaps. It seemed obvious that Lathe had badly underestimated Henslowe's strength; but somehow Galway couldn't see the blackcollar making mistakes like that. But if the raid hadn't been for information, then what had it been for? He had no answer for that. Yet.
Sliding the first tape into the reader, he hunched over and got to work.
For nine of Argent's ten months the riverside community of Split was just one of dozens of small towns dotting the eastern regions of the Rumelian Mountains, its residents maintaining a quiet existence unnoticed by anyone except the loggers working upriver. The tenth month was just the opposite, as for five weeks daredevils from as far away as Calarand descended on the region to ride the spring-swollen Hemoth River. The income that brought in was usually enough to finance the town for the rest of the year. It was an arrangement everyone seemed happy with, and it hadn't changed in years. Until now.
Now, suddenly, the mountains had become a beehive. Patrol boats dotted the skies off to the north, and military-style vehicles were driving through town at least once a day. No one was talking much, but rumor had it someone had broken jail and Security wanted him back.
The latest convoy—two vehicles with maybe four men in each—roared past San's Supplies, headed south. Sandor Gree looked up briefly, then returned to his inventory list and order forms. Business had undergone a boomlet recently, and there were several items he would have to reorder. The trick was in not ordering too much, of course. Swearing genially at the mixed blessings that had fallen upon him, he made a mark on one of the forms.
The front door opened with a squeak and Gree looked up again as a man in Security gray-green walked in. "Afternoon," he nodded. "What can I do for you?"
"I need some low-bulk foods that my team can carry into the mountains," the Security man said.
"Sure thing." Gree came from behind the counter and led the way to one of the shelves. "Thought you folks had your own stuff," he commented, hoping the other would speak again.
"We ran out and are having trouble getting resupplied."
"Ah." He'd been right; the Security man had a slight accent. One he couldn't place. "Well, here's what we've got. They're all pretty much the same, far as nutrition goes. Just a matter of taste."
The other picked up one of the packages and studied the nutrition listings, and as he did so Gree gave him a surreptitious once-over. The young side of middle age, perhaps, but in excellent physical condition. His uniform was reasonably clean but curiously rumpled, and he noticed a slight odor. The uniform, it appeared, was cleaner than the man wearing it.
"I'll take these," the other said, jostling Gree's train of thought. He held a stack of ten packages.
"Yes, sir." Gree took them and returned to the counter. "Cash or on the plate?"
"Cash."
Gree had expected that. "All right. Ten at two marks each is twenty; plus tax—" Impulsively, almost of its own accord, Gree's finger pushed a button on his register. "Plus tax, twenty-two," he announced through suddenly dry lips.
The Security man had several crumpled bills out already. Extracting two tens and two ones, he handed them over and in the same smooth motion picked up the packages. "Thank you," he said.
"Do you want a sack?" Gree asked as he turned toward the door.
"No, thank you," the other threw back over his shoulder. "I'm being picked up."
And then he was gone. "Sure you are," Gree muttered, his knees beginning to tremble with reaction. A big risk, but it had paid off. A real Security man would have gone through the roof if he'd been charged luxury-item tax on food. The penalty for fraud—but never mind that. He'd been right; that had been the elusive blackcollar Jensen. In full Security uniform, yet, and with the gall to just stroll into town for supplies. No wonder they hadn't caught him yet.
Reaching under the counter, Gree found his phone and began punching numbers. The connection was made, and he let it ring twice before hanging up. Thirty seconds later he repeated the procedure, checking his watch carefully as he disconnected. Exactly two minutes and forty seconds and he would call one final time, and the phone would be answered on the eleventh ring. Presumably.
Involuntarily, he glanced at his front door. He'd had a grace Gree had never before seen, a sort of submerged feline power that almost made the grapevine reports about the man believable. And if his rads were anything like him, maybe the vague rumors coming out of Calarand this morning weren't as exaggerated as he'd thought, either.
Almost time. Gree punched in all but the last number, watching his old Army chrono and waiting for the exact second to complete the connection. As he did so, the half-completed order forms on the counter caught his eye, and he smiled.
He'd best not swell his inventory too much more. He had an idea that the activity around Split would be breaking off very soon.
CHAPTER 19
The tension in the conference ro
om was thick enough to slice up and make into sandwiches. Gazing around the table, Caine saw nothing but hostility; from Bakshi's icy expression to his blackcollars' more open contempt to Jeremiah Dan's steepled fingers with their white nails. Salli Quinlan and Miles Cameron had the look of lions awaiting their turn in the arena, and even Faye Picciano was unnaturally silent as she worked on Lathe's burns. And Ral Tremayne, standing behind his chair, was as mad as Caine had ever seen a man get.
"Soft probe. A look at the prison. Really cute." Tremayne's eyes bored into Lathe like twin antiarmor lasers. "What the hell did you expect to accomplish by that half-assed play?"
"I got in and back out alive," Lathe answered, wincing as Faye spread salve on his shoulder.
"Hold still," she chided. "This stuffs expensive—we can't afford to waste it on healthy skin."
"Or on stupid grandstanders. Put it away, Faye," Tremayne ordered. "Save it for Radix people injured in the line of duty. You haven't answered my question, Lathe."
"What are you griping about, Tremayne?" the comsquare said as Faye capped her tube of burn salve and began to bandage the skin already treated. "I don't need your permission to take action as long as it doesn't involve your people or equipment."
"What about the van you lost?" Cameron growled. "That was our equipment." He glanced over irritably as Novak passed by along the nearby wall. "Will you two sit down, damn it?"
Neither Mordecai nor Novak paid any attention, but continued their quiet wanderings. "They aren't hurting anything," Lathe told the intelligence chief. "And as for the van—"
"I'd rather they sat.
"All right, enough," Tremayne snapped. "Forget the van. The issue—"
"No, let's not forget the van," Lathe interrupted. His tone was suddenly hard. "We lost it because we were ambushed. And that means we were betrayed—by one of you."
"I've heard Commando Fuess's report," Tremayne said. "There's no conclusive evidence of that."
Lathe glanced at Fuess, and Caine thought he saw the Argentian squirm a bit. "Did Commando Fuess mention they were on to us ten blocks from the Strip? And that they had their roadblocks all set up—complete with heavy mag-lock shackles, which I'm told are not standard patrol car equipment? How much evidence do you want?"
"Someone could have seen you leave this morning," Faye suggested.
"That wouldn't have given them enough time. Besides, I had people in the garage watching for that."
Tremayne slammed his fist on the table. "That does it, damn it." Abruptly, he sat down and leveled a finger across the table at Lathe. "I've had it with taking you on faith and then watching you go off and work behind our backs. You're going to tell us what you're up to, and you're going to tell us now."
"I'm sorry," Lathe shook his head.
"You don't have a choice." Tremayne raised his hand.
And in the side wall across from Caine three small sections of the woodwork suddenly swung inward. From the gloom behind the openings three laser rifles appeared.
Caine froze, caught completely off-guard—but Novak was already moving. The blackcollar had been standing against the wall directly between two of the eye-level gunports, a meter and a half from either one; but almost before the rifles had steadied he'd taken a long step toward the one at his right and smashed the muzzle straight back into its port with his nunchaku. His back still to the wall, he reversed direction: two quick steps to his left, and his left leg snapped up and back in a hook kick, again jamming the protruding laser back into its owner. His nunchaku was spinning through the air before his foot was back on the floor, catching the last muzzle between the two sticks and slamming it against the edge of the port. The laser spat once, cutting a deep groove in the table. By the time the gunner recovered his aim Novak was there. Grabbing the muzzle, he first shoved and then pulled, and a second later was down on one knee with his prize pointing past the table. Caine glanced behind him, realizing only then that Mordecai had similarly taken out the three gunports on his side of the room.
In the brittle silence Bakshi's voice carried clearly: "Drop those guns or I'll kill you."
Caine focused on him. The comsquare hadn't moved, hadn't drawn a single weapon; and yet, looking at his expression, Caine had no doubt he could carry out the threat. Suddenly the room felt very cold indeed.
"Everyone just relax," Lathe said calmly. "We're not trying to take over. But I warned you against pulling weapons on us again." He eyed the walls and jerked his head toward the door. "Out, all of you. Tremayne?"
Glowering, the Radix leader gave a hand signal. Splitting neatly along lines in the woodwork, a door swung open around each of the gunports. Six men, nursing cut lips and sore shoulders, stepped from the dark alcoves and headed for the door. Lathe motioned, and the Plinry blackcollars returned the captured lasers to their owners.
"We'll have no more of this eavesdropping," Lathe said as the door closed behind the guards.
"Don't worry," Cameron growled. "Those men are completely trustworthy."
"No one on Argent is completely trustworthy," Lathe said, "and before you get your hackles up I simply mean we're too small a group to take the wrong chance twice. That's why we didn't tell anyone about our plans this morning. I'm sorry if you feel offended, but that's how we have to operate here."
"It's not a matter of wounded pride, Damon," Faye spoke up. "Whatever you were trying to do in Henslowe, chances are Miles could have made things easier for you if you'd consulted with him beforehand. Were you hoping to find where a particular prisoner was being kept? If so, we could probably have gotten that for you from out here."
Lathe shrugged noncommittally. "There'll be other chances."
"Not if I know Apostoleris," Bakshi said. "He's bound to move the vets now—and wherever they're put it'll cost us a lot of lives to get them out. That's what your private raid really accomplished."
"Perhaps," Lathe admitted. "If so, I'm sorry. Where would the vets be sent—any ideas?"
"Cerbe Prison's their best bet," Faye said. "It's an old fortress southeast of here, out in the middle of nowhere. Smallish building, four floors up and six down, surrounded by a walled courtyard big enough to land a Corsair in. The wall's got a weapons turret at each corner, controlled either from inside or from the main building."
"If the quizlers put them there you might as well pack up and leave," Dael Valentine interjected, his face stormy above his black turtleneck. "In fact, maybe you ought to leave anyway."
"Easy, Dael," Bakshi murmured.
"Sorry, Comsquare, but I'm getting sick of this. We give them safety and information by the truckload and get absolutely nothing in return."
Bakshi cocked an eyebrow at Lathe. "You care to respond?"
"Certainly. If you'd open your eyes and imagination you'd see useful fallout from our work all around you."
"What fallout?" Valentine snorted.
"Well, for lack of a more obvious example, we just demolished a gate into the Strip. Someone's got to rebuild it, and one or two of those someones could build miniature mines into the hinges. You'd then have a one-shot chance later to bring a carload of stolen parts or whatever out of the Strip without having to actually ram the gate."
From the looks and murmurs around the table it was clear no one had thought of that. Tremayne and Bakshi exchanged glances, and Caine saw the blackcollar nod fractionally.
"Do you promise to consult with us—or at least me—before any further actions?" Tremayne asked.
"If it involves Radix personnel, yes," Lathe said promptly. "Assuming there's time, of course. Otherwise, I claim the right to act unilaterally."
"That's not good enough," Valentine shook his head.
Lathe shrugged. "It's the best I can offer."
There was a moment of awkward silence. "All right," Tremayne said at last. "I guess I can see your side of it. But—" He leveled a finger at Lathe. "We can play by military rules too. If any Radix member gets killed because you didn't consult with us you'll face a summary court-m
artial. I mean it."
"Understood. You'll let us know right away about any prisoner transfer?"
Tremayne looked at Cameron. "Yeah, I'll get some people on that," the intelligence chief growled.
"Good. Anything new at the Chryselli front?"
"The fighting's still going on," Salli Quinlan spoke up, somewhat grudgingly. "Argent's not about to be flooded with returning Ryqril, if that's what you're worried about."
"I was," Lathe acknowledged. "Thank you." He started to stand up.
"Just a second," Valentine objected. "Assuming it's not tied up with this precious mission of yours, I want to know how Caine did his vanishing act from Earth." He sent Caine a baleful glance. "Fair is fair—you don't trust us, either."
"A government man was kidnapped by our people," Caine said evenly. "His ID was altered, and somehow the computer records were also changed."
" 'Somehow'? You'll have to do better than that."
"I don't know how it was done—"
"Oh, that's helpful. Very convenient, too."
Caine felt his face getting red. "I'm an agent, not one of the leaders. They don't tell me everything."
"That's no better an explanation," Cameron said, getting into the act.
"Just a minute," Lathe interrupted. "I think I may know how they did it." He hesitated, not meeting Caine's puzzled frown.
"Well?" Tremayne prompted.
"Near the end of the war someone apparently broke the old problem of short lifetimes for human clones...."
With a kind of numb horror Caine listened as Lathe outlined his theory. It was a possibility that had never occurred to him. His parents, the Resistance people who'd trained him—none of them had ever hinted that he was anything special. But it made sense... and the more he considered it, the more sense it made. There was no other way to explain how Rienzi's medical records had been such a perfect fit for him. No wonder Kratochvil and Marinos had been so casual about the ID records—all the hard work had been done twenty-seven years earlier!
