Blackcollar: The Backlash Mission

by Timothy Zahn

  "Our deal is perfectly well defined," Lathe said coolly. "You find Caine; we redo your defenses. To be perfectly honest, I don't trust you all that far, either."

  Reger smiled thinly. "As long as we understand each other."

  "Good. Then I'd like to have that description of Caine's new car, and then go see my other man, Hawking."

  Reger handed over a piece of paper. "Hawking's out on the perimeter looking over the sensor line," he said. "You want a guide?"

  "No, I'll find him," Lathe said, getting to his feet. "Just make sure your guards know I'm going to be out there. I don't want to have to hurt anyone."

  Reger nodded. He was speaking into his intercom as Lathe left.

  He found Hawking sitting in the lower branches of a gnarled tree, drilling holes into the trunk. "You building him a full sensor wedge?" he asked as Hawking dropped back to the ground.

  "More or less," the other said. "I can see how the local blackcollar force got in before—the primaryline tolerances allow for slow-foot infiltration. I'm setting up a sequential-event trigger system to try and plug that hole."

  "Sounds good."

  "And you were right about the raid being recent," Hawking continued. "Jensen found some shuriken and flechette marks under a fresh topcoating in the walls near Reger's bedroom when he was tearing everything up."

  Lathe glanced back in the direction of the house. "What exactly is Jensen building back there, anyway?"

  "A full-fledged death-house gauntlet," Hawking said, shaking his head. "Hidden escape doors, scudnet drop ceiling panels—the works. His idea, incidentally, not Reger's. And if you ask me, he's just a little too enthusiastic about the whole project."

  Lathe pursed his lips. "He's had that hard edge ever since Argent. I'm hoping it'll fade with time, but for now we'll just have to keep an eye on him."

  "Yeah." Hawking rubbed his chin. "Did you find the local blackcollars, by the way?"

  "Their contact man, yes. We're allegedly meeting their doyen tonight."

  "You don't sound thrilled by the prospect."

  Lathe grimaced. "It looks very much like they've turned their backs completely on the war. I don't know if we can rekindle them enough to get any help. And if not... well, we'll just have to make do with Reger."

  "I'm not sure how far Reger wants to get into the war, either."

  "He is beginning to wonder whether we're worth the risk of bringing Security down on him," Lathe agreed soberly. "I suppose that means we'll just have to keep raising the ante on him."

  "How?"

  "I don't know yet. But I'm sure we can find a way to keep his interest."

  "Well, don't push him too hard," Hawking warned. "Beneath that mild exterior there's a tough old man."

  "But also a smart one who recognizes a good deal when he hears one. If we need more help from him I'll be sure it's genuinely worth his while."

  "A good philosophy," Hawking said dryly. "Remember it when you talk to the other blackcollars tonight."

  "Right. I'll be in touch. And keep an eye on Jensen."

  —

  "Ridiculous." Quinn snorted, tossing the paper aside.

  Galway took a deep breath, all his preparation for the general's expected reaction threatening to evaporate before the surge of anger within him. "It's from your own agent—your own loyaltyconditioned agent—at the Shandygaff—"

  "I can read," Quinn cut him off harshly. "I also know that anyone can walk into a bar wearing a dragonhead ring. Doesn't even prove they were blackcollars, let alone Lathe and Skyler."

  "The descriptions fit," Galway persisted. "And as for them not being blackcollars, don't you think this Kanai would've taken violent exception to their right to wear those rings?"

  "Kanai wouldn't lift a finger if the guy had money and a job for him," Quinn said with contempt.

  Underestimating Denver's blackcollars. A shiver went up Galway's spine as he remembered what that attitude had once cost him. "It would be easy enough to settle the question," he told Quinn. "Call your agent in and ask for identification of my photos."

  "No," Quinn said flatly. "Bringing agents in can jeopardize their anonymity, and someone in that good a position is too valuable to risk. Ditto for calling or sending the photos over by messenger. I don't want any of my men even to go near the Shandygaff."

  "That's absurd," Galway snapped, fed up in spite of himself. "Don't you send men in even occasionally to check out the bar?"

  Quinn turned an icy glare onto the prefect. "No, we don't," he said. "The Shandygaff polices itself, and we keep our hands strictly off."

  "So that the criminal bosses can meet and make their deals in comfort?" Galway snorted.

  "And can settle their business with words instead of open warfare on the streets. I warned you once that you don't understand how things are done in Denver, Galway. Now I suggest you quit trying to meddle and content yourself with providing information on Caine—when you're asked for it."

  Galway clamped his teeth tightly over the retort that wanted to come out. "As you wish," he said stiffly. Turning, he stalked out of Quinn's office. It's out of my hands, he told himself as he headed down the hall to his own cubicle. Whatever happens is on Quinn's head alone.

  Except that there was no guarantee the Ryqril would see it that way.

  And then Plinry would suffer.

  Damn it all. No, he couldn't leave Quinn to sink or swim on his own... but fortunately he didn't have to. Security men were barred from the Shandygaff, fine—but Galway wasn't technically a Security man in this jurisdiction. And a private citizen could go anywhere he damn well pleased.

  For a moment he gazed out his window to the city beyond. Legal technicalities or not, he'd still be smart to wait until Quinn had left for the day before making his sortie. The general usually didn't close up shop before seven, sometimes as late as eight-thirty. Still, that was all right—the Shandygaff was open until three.

  His phone buzzed. "Galway here," he answered it."

  "Jastrow, sir—research," the man at the other end identified himself. "We've got something on your request of last night, Prefect. It turns out there is someone living in the area you demarcated for us: Ivas Trendor, who used to be Security prefect for North America before they moved the central office from here down to Dallas. He's got a self-sufficient seven-room cabin up there and about thirty hectares of land behind an old barbed wire fence. Apparently lives pretty much like a hermit."

  "Is he still active in Security matters?"

  "I don't think so, sir. I've never heard of him coming in for any reason."

  Galway chewed his lip. "How long was he involved with Security?"

  "Oh, since the end of the war at least. He was made prefect in—uh—2440, nine years after the Ryqril came. Retired six years ago, in 2455."

  A retired Security prefect, who presumably knew a lot about the war and the immediate aftermath.

  Postern had said that Caine was trying to locate veterans' organizations. Coincidence? "Does this Trendor have any guards at his place?" he asked slowly.

  "Ah—I really don't know, sir. I can check and get back to you."

  "Do that. I'll be here until early evening at least."

  He broke the connection with a muttered curse. So Caine's trip yesterday could very well have had nothing at all to do with Aegis Mountain. Nothing directly, at least. Former Prefect Trendor might still be a minor stop on the way to that final goal; at the moment the whole thing was still too murky to trace that far into it.

  As murky as if Lathe was directing it personally.

  Galway took a deep breath. Patience, he told himself. Tonight he'd settle that point once and for all.

  Until then, it might be a good idea to search the files for everything that was known about the local blackcollars. If Quinn foolishly insisted on underestimating them, that was no reason Galway had to, too.

  Chapter 14

  Geoff Dupre pulled out of his driveway a few minutes before nine, headlights cutting twin cone
s through the light mist that had sprung up in the past hour. Caine let him get a block away, then nodded to Braune. "Let's go."

  "Right," the other said. Pulling smoothly away from the curb, he gave leisurely chase.

  Dupre was easy to follow. Braune stayed one to two blocks behind him as they headed northwest, drifting farther back as the traffic thinned and the buildings of Denver were replaced by trees and hills. Caine kept a close watch for signs that Security had identified their car, but as far as he could tell that danger hadn't yet materialized. If so, splitting the team might turn out to have been a bad decision, especially if he and Braune ran into more opposition than he expected. But getting all five of them caught in the same car would be a disaster; and Security still might tumble to them before the night was up. Better that three of the team were out of the opposition's immediate reach on this one.

  The small office-type building Dupre eventually parked his car beside was situated between two large hills that hid it from Denver proper. Cutting across one end of the parking lot was a half-buried pipeline that disappeared into the foliage upslope; surrounding the whole area was a tall fence with sensor clusters mounted at each corner and over the single gate. Inside the fence, flanking the gate and drive, was a one-man guard shelter.

  "Now what?" Braune asked as they drove toward the gate. "It's too late to stop—we'd look suspicious."

  "Agreed." Caine pursed his lips, eyes taking in the details as he thought. With civilian clothing over their flexarmor they should be able to approach the gate attendant without panicking anyone.

  Breaking in was out of the question—the sensors were surely good enough to spot that and relay an alarm to the nearest Security post. But something more subtle might get by the defenses. "I wish we'd brought Alamzad," he commented. "He might be able to give us a better reading on those sensors. Well, let's go ahead and try the old bureaucratic confusion approach. You have your Special Services ID?"

  "Sure."

  "Okay. Play off my cues."

  They rolled to a stop in front of the gate. Caine stepped out of the car and walked briskly over to the guard shelter. The guard himself, a middle-aged man in a loose uniform, had emerged by the time Caine reached him. "Yes?" he asked, squinting a bit against the car's headlights.

  "Inspector Craig Nielson, Special Services," Caine said, holding his ID against the fence for the other's scrutiny. It was an impressive card, with two seals and three signatures and some of the best etched-gold trim the Plinry blackcollars had ever turned out. The fact that it had nothing to do with any actual government agency was almost irrelevant—it looked official, and for many people that would be enough. Caine held his breath, hoping the guard was one of those.

  Almost, but not quite. "Yes, sir," he said, his tone abruptly respectful. "I'm afraid I'll have to run your prints and retina pattern through the Athena link, though, before you can come in."

  "Of course, of course," Caine said, mindful of the sensors overhead. They might not be continuously monitored, or even contain audio pickups at all, but he couldn't take the chance. "Just hurry it up."

  "Yes, sir. If you'll slide that ID through here, this will only take a minute."

  Caine passed the card through the indicated gap in the fence and the guard stepped into his shelter.

  Half seen through the doorway, he busied himself with a compact terminal, and Caine forced his muscles to relax. If Hawking had gimmicked the card properly...

  He had. "Uh, sir?" the guard said, frowning as he stepped back to the fence. "I can't seem to get the prints to read."

  "Damn," Caine muttered with proper irritation. "I've told them and told them the alignment's off—half the readers on the continent won't pick the pattern up. Do you have another machine?"

  "No, sir, but I've got a direct scanner right here. We can just bypass the ID entirely."

  "Sure, sure, just get on with it," Caine said, waving a hand impatiently. The guard leaned into his shelter and the gate slid open half a meter. Caine stepped through and joined the guard, eyes flicking once to the other's belt holster. A paral-dart gun, by its size, and it presented a safer alternative to the nerve punch Caine had planned.

  "Right here, sir," the guard said, gesturing into the shelter. Caine brushed past him, and as the guard leaned in behind him, he turned back and jabbed two fingers into the older man's solar plexus.

  The guard's mouth popped open, a strangled unh the only sound to escape. Caine's right hand shifted to a steadying grip on the other's arm, his left deftly sliding the pistol from its holster and pressing its muzzle against the guard's thigh. A quiet burp, a reflexive jerk of the leg, and a second later the man went limp. Caine was ready; palming the gun and shifting to a two-handed grip, he swung the guard smoothly around and into a chair that took up most of the shelter's rear. Hitting the switch that opened the gate, he dropped the pistol into his pocket and then took a couple of seconds to make sure the guard was well enough braced and balanced to remain upright. Braune had the car through by the time he'd finished; closing the gate again, Caine got back in the vehicle for the hundred-meter drive to the building.

  They parked just off the main door and headed inside. From the relative emptiness of the parking lot, Caine guessed that the graveyard shift was run by a fractional staff. If they were careful, they might pull this off without running into anyone who would ask awkward questions.

  The entry foyer was lit but deserted, as was the hallway beyond its double doors. Caine and Braune padded quietly past a row of closed office doors, turned a corner—

  And came face to face with Geoff Dupre.

  The big man stopped with a jerk, the steaming cup in his hand sloshing dangerously. "You!" he half whispered.

  "No noise," Caine warned, letting the other see the shuriken in his hand. "We aren't going to hurt anyone unless you make that necessary. Understand?"

  Dupre licked his lips. "What do you want?"

  "Take us to your office first. No sense in standing around out here."

  In silence Dupre led them down the hall to a cluttered room near the building's center. An open interior door showed several men working at a line of consoles beneath a computerized wall map alive with spidery lines. Braune caught Caine's eye and nodded fractionally toward the room before closing the door and positioning himself beside it. Caine closed the hallway door and gestured Dupre to his desk chair. The big man hesitated, then sat down. "Well?" he asked, almost belligerently.

  Caine regarded him coolly. "You have a real talent for getting your courage up at the wrong times," he told the other. "Where do you store the explosives in this building?"

  Dupre's mouth twitched. "Explosives?"

  "Things that go bang," Braune supplied. "You use them in digging new aqueducts for the water system, remember?"

  Dupre flicked a glance in Braune's direction, then looked back at Caine. "There aren't any real explosives here. All that stuff is kept in the operations warehouse."

  "What have you got here?"

  "Nothing really except some primer caps that we sometimes send down the pipes to clear out blockages. They're not very powerful."

  "They'll do for a start," Caine said. "Where are they?"

  "What're you going to do with them?" Dupre asked.

  "Clear out some blockages of our own. Where are they?"

  For a moment Dupre seemed ready to argue the point further. Then his eyes dropped to the star in Caine's hand and he sighed. "They're in the basement storeroom."

  "Good. Braune, go with him and get a box or two."

  They left. Caine waited until the sounds of their footsteps had faded down the hall, then stepped to the inner door and cracked it open. Four men, backs to him, were working at the consoles. Pulling the paral-dart pistol from his pocket, Caine eased into the room, eyes darting around for anyone he might have missed seeing. Then he lined up the gun on the farthest man and squeezed the trigger.

  Five seconds later all four were sprawled in their seats, fully conscious
but unable to move. Stepping to the consoles, Caine gave them a quick scan and settled down to work. By the time Braune and Dupre came looking for him he had found a complete map of the water retrieval system and was halfway through printing a copy. "Any trouble?" he asked Braune, eying the long, flat box cradled under the other's arm.

  Braune shook his head. "But we'd better get moving," he said, glancing at the sprawled figures.

  "There are at least another five to ten people wandering around the building."

  "Right. Almost ready." Caine looked at Dupre, who was staring at his paralyzed colleagues with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Dupre, I'm afraid you're going to have to join them," he told the man, drawing the paral-dart gun from his pocket once more. "Lie down and get comfortable."

  Dupre's jaw tightened visibly, but he obeyed without argument. Caine sent a cluster of paral-dart needles into the man's shoulder and then, after a moment's hesitation, returned the gun to his pocket.

  The gun's unfired shots would tell them later which of the plethora of paralyzing drugs was being used locally, a bit of knowledge that would be crucial if they ever needed to counteract its effects themselves. Virtually all antidotes to paralyte drugs were highly toxic unless the corresponding drug was already in the bloodstream.

  A minute later the last of Caine's requested maps was finished, and he and Braune began their withdrawal. Luck was with them; they saw no one as they made their way down the corridors, out to their car, and across the lot to the fence. The guard's eyes held impotent rage as Caine opened the gate and rejoined Braune. Leaving the gate open, they drove off into the night.

  —

  The same woman as on the previous night was sitting in the coatcheck window when Lathe and Skyler came into the Shandygaff bar, her makeup still far too heavy for Lathe's taste. "Good evening," he nodded to her, gesturing toward the main room. "Mr. Charm in tonight?"

  "Who?" she frowned.

  "The short lad with the itchy palms and the mobile guardhouses," Skyler amplified.

  "Oh—Mr. Nash. The guardhouses' names are Briller and Chong, if you're interested." She cocked her head. "What did you do to Chong last night, by the way?"