by Timothy Zahn
That phase ended quickly, though, as the surviving Ryqril reached the shadows around the Corsairs. Crouching near the front landing skid of one of the fighters, Novak realized he had a macabre game of hide-and-seek on his hands. The aliens had realized that firing a laser invited a quick death and had adopted the blackcollars’ skulking technique, relying on their short swords and superhuman speed. It was a risky game for both sides: the Ryqril had a numerical edge, but the longer they delayed the obvious gambit of putting one or more Corsairs in the air, the better the blackcollars’ chances. Sliding a gloved finger under his right sleeve, Novak tapped out a message on his tingler: Ryqril gone to ground; hurry with main objective.
His answer was a short flurry of combat-coded orders as Kwon and Haven shifted some of their forces to his aid. With luck, the Ryqril would be effectively encircled before they realized it—
A faint rustle of cloth was Novak’s only warning. He half leaped, half rolled to the side, not quite fast enough, as a short sword whistled through the air and caught his left forearm. He twisted the limb as fast as he could, letting the blade skitter off along the flexarmor sleeve, but it still felt like being hit with a brick. He continued his roll, yanking out his nunchaku and lashing out blindly in an effort to keep his assailant away until he could regain his balance. The counterattack was clumsy, and the Ryq avoided it easily, swinging under it at Novak’s neck. But the alien apparently underestimated blackcollar reflexes. Novak evaded the blade by a whisker, took a couple of steps back, and drew a long knife from his left forearm sheath.
The Ryq was on him immediately, slashing silently with speed and skill. Sweating under his flexarmor, Novak continued to back up, fending off the attacks with knife and nunchaku. His left arm ached fiercely, a mute reminder of his danger. Theoretically, the sword couldn’t penetrate his flexarmor, but the blows were easily hard enough to break bones if they landed right. And once disabled…well, the Ryq could always strangle him.
Novak swallowed involuntarily. He was between two rows of Corsairs now, exposed to the faint backwash of light from the distant buildings. It was a lousy position to be in—not only was he wide open to attack, but the Ryq could easily be forcing him toward a second alien’s hiding place. Desperately, he tried to take the offensive…but the alien was a trained warrior, too. Slowly but steadily, Novak lost ground.
And then, like a gift from heaven, a terse signal tingled into his wrist: stand clear; two seconds.
Novak’s heart leaped. Wielding his knife with new vigor, he got ready…and with a roar, a flash of flame erupted simultaneously from the tail of every Corsair around them.
For a brief instant the Ryq froze, startled by the unexpected explosions. But Novak was ready, and in that instant he hurled his knife at the alien’s face. Breaking his paralysis, the Ryq ducked, raising his swordarm reflexively—and Novak swung his nunchaku with all his strength into the other’s side.
There was the dull crack of bone breaking and the alien stumbled, off-balance. Novak pressed his attack, flailing the Ryq’s head and torso with all the power he could muster. Again and again he struck; and even when the Ryq lay unmoving on the ground he kept up the assault for several seconds before it occurred to him to stop.
Kneeling beside the body, he drew a shuddering breath. That had been close—far too close. And yet, strangely, he felt a sudden new confidence in himself. It had been a long time since he’d fought for real, but he’d done all right—and against a Ryq, too.
A flash of laser light erupted off to his side, and even as he snatched out a throwing star he knew what was happening. The Ryqril, startled back into the open by the blasts, had reverted to the use of their superior firepower in an effort to regain the upper hand.
The laser flashed again. Someone screamed, but even as the Ryq swung his weapon at a new target, he fell.
Novak’s star buried in his neck. Farther ahead, Novak could see reflected light from other lasers. Sheathing his nunchaku, he drew two throwing stars and, keeping to the shadows, moved silently forward. Firepower, the Ryqril would learn, was of only limited use against blackcollars. Twenty minutes later, it was all over.
The ’port had been quiet for half an hour before Lathe let Hawking guide the autocab through its main gate. Gazing out the window, Caine spotted two or three blackcollars loitering in various shadows; none of the usual Security uniforms were visible anywhere. “You took the whole ’port?” he asked unbelievingly.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Lathe told him. “Over there, Hawking—looks like Kwon.”
It was indeed the husky blackcollar, sporting a captured laser. He stepped forward as the autocab rolled up. “Report,” Lathe said.
“The tower and most of the ’port are ours. There are still some Ryqril in the barracks, but they’re pinned down. If necessary we could fry them with the antiaircraft lasers, or even drop the whole building on top of them—Novak looked it over and says it could be done with five modest-sized bombs thrown in at key sites.”
“I’ll take his word for it,” Lathe said. “We’ll hold off on that for now—there might be something in there we’d rather have in an undemolished condition. What about the Corsairs?”
“All but one are effectively disabled, at least for anything involving the rear grav stabilizer. We left one intact, as per your instructions. Dodds is out there looking it over.”
“Casualties?”
“Here at the ’port, nineteen: three blackcollars and sixteen trainees. Durbin reported two trainees killed among the rioters in Capstone—that number could go higher. And both Shen and Dhonau were killed.”
Lathe nodded heavily. “Victory’s expensive these days.”
“As always.”
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Lathe gazed across the landing field. “Those freighters look pretty small. Any idea what size they are?”
Kwon squinted into the darkness. “Not sure. F-class, I’d guess. Jensen could tell you better—he’s around here somewhere, probably within tingler range. Shall I ask him?”
“Please. If he confirms they’re big enough, call the trucks in and start loading; I want to get off before daybreak. And let me borrow your long-range—I need to call the tower.”
Kwon undipped a small lens-shaped object from his belt and handed it over. “Tower can probably be reached by tingler, if you’d rather use code.”
“I need to call Dodds out on the field, too.” Lathe fingered the communicator. “Hawking, go over and help Jensen pick the freighter we’re going to take. Mordecai, start rounding up the expedition—you know who’s going? Good. And if you find Dayle Greene, ask him to step over. He’s going to be in charge here while we’re gone.”
Kwon drifted back to his shadow as Hawking and Mordecai left the autocab. Alone with Lathe, Caine suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To get your starships, of course.”
“Right now?”
Lathe fixed him with a curious gaze. “Certainly. Surely you didn’t expect to climb aboard a passenger ship and fly back to Earth as if nothing had happened.” He gestured at the cassette reader in Caine’s lap. “How’s the decoding coming?”
“Slowly. It’s a tricky code.”
“You know which system yet?”
“There was something in Lathe’s eyes that Caine didn’t like. “Why?” he asked cautiously.
“Because I need to know where we’re going before we liftoff.”
“But we have to go to Earth first and organize a crew.”
“Earth is the first place they’ll look for us,” Lathe explained patiently. “We’ll just have to try and pick up a crew in the other system instead. Now which is it?”
Caine pursed his lips. “System M-4. Orion Sector.”
“Hmm. Argent’s system.” Lathe nodded, frowning slightly.
“Is that good or bad?”
“A little of both. A thriving planet—I assume Argent’s still thriving—will make it easi
er to find a crew. On the other hand, Orion Sector runs up to the TDE-Chryselli border, which probably implies a strong Ryqril presence.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It could be better,” Lathe agreed. Raising the communicator, he flipped it on. “Lathe to Dodds. Lathe to Dodds.”
A moment later a response came. “Dodds here.”
“How’s flight prep coming?”
“I just finished. You have the information?”
“Yes—number thirteen on our list. Got that?”
“One-three, right. If you’ll clear me with the tower I’ll be off. Safe flight to you.”
“You too.” Lathe tapped a couple more switches. “Lathe to whoever’s in the tower.”
“Novak here,” the answer came promptly. “We were eavesdropping on your last call. What’s Dodds doing?”
“Special assignment,” Lathe said curtly. “I want you to shut down the lasers until he’s cleared atmosphere.”
There was a short silence. “I don’t recall Dhonau mentioning this,” Novak said.
“He didn’t; this is on my authority,” Lathe told him.
“I see.” A moment passed. “Antiaircraft lasers shut down.”
“Good. Call Dodds and tell him we can lift when ready.” Shutting off the communicator, Lathe fastened it to his belt and turned to look at the rows of Corsairs.
Caine cleared his throat. “Just what is this mission, Lathe?”
“Later.” He nodded at the field. “There he goes.”
A diffuse glow was visible now, reflecting faintly from other fighters and the glaze-surface. As Caine watched, a dark bulk rose from the far end of the field, the blue-violet light from its gravs casting strangely colored shadows. Rotating to point eastward, it shot upward with surprising speed until it was almost invisible against the starry background. Then, abruptly, a white star erupted as the main drive kicked in. Arcing across the sky, it was lost to sight within seconds.
Lathe stirred, his left hand seeking his right wrist. “Someone’s approaching the ’port,” he told Caine. “Security car, the tower says. Mordecai’s on his way; I want you to go to the ship with him, where you’ll be safe.”
“What about you?” Caine asked.
“I’m going to meet the car.” He saw the look on Caine’s face and added, “I’ll be in no danger—this isn’t an attack force coming. But your safety’s too vital to take even small risks with. Go on.”
Reluctantly, Caine got out, watching as Lathe circled back toward the ’port gate. Mordecai appeared at his side and together they set off across the field.
Lathe was waiting by the gate when the Security car rolled to a stop. The driver stepped out, his hands empty and held slightly away from his body. Spotting Lathe, he walked toward him.
It was Prefect Galway.
“I’m alone and unarmed,” were his first words. “I’m here for a parley.”
“What makes you think we’ve got anything to talk about?” Lathe asked, quietly putting away the throwing star he’d been palming.
Galway frowned as he studied what he could see of Lathe’s face. “Comsquare Lathe, isn’t it?” He shook his head ruefully. “Damn, but you had us fooled. I still can’t believe what you’ve done to us.”
“It wasn’t all that easy, actually,” Lathe told him. “You, particularly, have an unceasingly suspicious mind. But you didn’t come here just to exchange compliments. What do you want?”
Galway glanced through the gate into the ’port. “Basically, I’m here to offer some advice.” He turned back to face the blackcollar. “As a diversion and a lure, the riot you started was brilliant. But don’t overdo it.”
“What do you mean?” Lathe asked evenly.
“I mean you’ve got the population at flash point. Everyone in Capstone knows what’s happening by now. They’re looking at the trouble a few hundred teen-agers are giving us and probably wondering what an uprising by the whole population would do.”
“What would it do?”
“Destroy Plinry,” Galway said, and Lathe was struck by the intensity in the prefect’s voice. “The Ryqril section of the Hub can’t be taken—I’m sure you know that. Even if a revolt succeeded in boxing them in, it would last only until the next Ryqril courier showed up. A week after that the Corsairs would come.” Galway waved toward the south, where the lights of Capstone were visible. “We haven’t even recovered from the last war. How much punitive action do you think we could take?”
“Not much,” Lathe admitted. “So what do you want from me?”
“I’d like you to stop the revolt. I’d settle for slowing it down, since you probably aren’t interested in stopping it. We can negotiate a deal, if necessary, but bear in mind the kinds of concessions I can make are limited.”
Lathe remained silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No negotiations needed, Galway. We’re not out to liberate Plinry—not this time, anyway. Our people will be going underground for a while, but if you don’t push them or retaliate against Capstone’s people they won’t give you any more trouble.”
Galway’s eyes burned into his. “Your word?”
“I’ll give the orders. That’s all I can guarantee.”
A slight twitch which might have been a smile. “All right. I’ll try to keep my people in check, as well. Otherwise, there might not be a world here when you come back.” Once more his eyes flicked toward the landing field and the dark ships there. “I’d give my last dose of Idunine to know what you’re up to.”
“You’ll find out some day.”
“I’m sure I will,” Galway said dryly. Turning, he returned to his car and drove off.
From his vantage point near the lumpy freighter, Caine watched Galway drive away, his mind a tangle of conflicting thoughts. The meeting had been peaceful, even friendly, and the two men had talked for a long time. Why? More importantly, why had Lathe made so sure that there weren’t any witnesses to the conversation?
He shook his head, feeling a little silly. Suspicions like that were highly unfair—the meeting had probably been a perfectly aboveboard parley. Still….Caine became aware of the cassette reader in his hand and, almost unconsciously, gripped it a little tighter. Practically since his arrival the blackcollars had been calling the shots, and even now he was being treated rather like a piece of valuable cargo. But when the final crunch came, it would be Allen Caine who held the ace. And it wasn’t a card he would give away lightly…nor to just anyone.
Lathe was coming toward the freighter now. Shifting the reader to his other hand, Caine headed for the ship’s cargo hatch. Perhaps the blackcollars would let him help with the loading.
CHAPTER 9
THE FREIGHTER’S NAVIGATIONAL COMPUTER put the distance to Argent as six parsecs. A Corsair would make the trip in three days; Caine’s old passenger liner could have done it in seven. The freighter, designed for fuel efficiency rather than speed, took almost twelve.
There were twelve exceptionally busy days, however. While most of the eleven blackcollars aboard worked at organizing the equipment they’d brought along, Lathe detailed Skyler and Novak to give Caine a condensed version of blackcollar training. It was an intensive course, straining Caine’s mnemonic and fighting skills to the limit. He learned the blackcollar combat codes, both tingler and hand signal forms; was given new unarmed fighting techniques and drilled in their use; and acquired at least a modest proficiency with nunchaku, slingshot, and shuriken. In between lessons he spent his time getting to know his fellow travelers…and asking carefully worded questions.
“Oh, yeah, me and Tardy go back to before the war. He knew every still on Plinry, and we used to steal the whiskey from ’em and use it as a primer in our bombs. Lathe? No, I didn’t meet him till after the amnesty….”
“…Seems to me Lathe and Dodds had adjacent units—somewhere in the New Karachi area, I think. I didn’t know either of them until I started coming to the lodge get-togethers.…”
“�
��Dodds was always a quiet sort; never worked out with us at the lodge. I hear a nerve gas attack laid him out during the war and sort of scrambled his fighting reflexes. Smart guy, though, and he and Lathe get along pretty well. Sure, I’ve known Lathe a long time—we were standing in line together for the collie interrogation….”
And so it went, until Caine was forced to the inescapable conclusion that no one aboard had ever heard of Lathe or Dodds until after the war.
The revelation wasn’t all that remarkable, of course. Plinry had started with three hundred blackcollars—twenty-five of the standard twelve-man guerrilla teams—and with only thirty-one left it was reasonable that several of them would be the sole survivors of their units. Still, combined with Lathe’s steadfast refusal to discuss Dodds’s special mission, this new bit of information made Caine uneasy.
Three days out from Argent, when he finally finished decoding the Plinry record, he put the eight critical numbers—six spatial, two temporal—into a special mental file. Six hours of self-hypnosis later, it was ringed by a series of psycho-mental blocks that no drug or neurotrace could break before killing him.
No one—neither Lathe nor anyone else—would get those numbers until Caine was good and ready to give them up.
Argent was a bright speck with a clearly discernible disk when the freighter reentered normal space. Chelsey Jensen, at the helm, set the computer to working out an approach curve, and then punched for a schematic of the system. “That one’s Argent,” he told Caine, tapping the second planet. “Third or fourth most Earthlike world in the TDE and a real goldmine of minerals. The place was filthy rich before the war.”
“Hmm.” The schematic showed twelve more planets plus a strangely shaped haze. “What’s that?” Caine asked, pointing to the latter.
“It’s an asteroid belt, called the Diamond Ring for obvious reasons.”
“What makes it bunch like that instead of distributing itself more evenly?”