The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

  “No idea. Made mining a lot easier, though, with so much of the stuff concentrated in one place. Ten to one it’s where your Novas are hidden, too.”

  “Maybe. A good place to run guerrilla raids from, too.” In his mind’s eye Caine could see tiny fighters appearing from nowhere to strike at the Ryqril forces—

  “Not really. Asteroid belts aren’t that dense; even the Diamond there is mostly empty space, and a ship moving with any decent drive trail would be trivial to track. You’d do better hiding in a swamp or forest down on Argent.”

  The heroic vision vanished. “Oh. Is that what we’re going to do, then?”

  “Yes and no,” a new voice said, and Caine turned as Lathe came up the tight spiral staircase. “We’ll hide someplace like that for a day or so until we can contact the local underground.”

  Caine blinked. “You’ve been in touch with Argent’s underground?”

  Lathe gave him an odd look. “Of course not. We’ve been isolated on Plinry; you know that.”

  “But you just said—” Caine snapped his fingers. “Oh, of course. Dodds. He’s already here, isn’t he?”

  “Caine, you have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.” Lathe turned to Jensen. “Situation?”

  “The autopilot’s taking us in,” Jensen said, studying the readouts. “ETA of fifteen hours. Of course, we’ll be challenged long before then.”

  “All right. Go get some rest and finish your preparations; I’ll have Spadafora watch things here. Be back in nine hours.”

  “Right.” With one last glance at the instruments Jensen crossed the room and vanished down the stairway.

  “You, too,” Lathe told Caine. “Go to the cargo bay and help get the drop pods ready.”

  “I want to be here when you talk to the planet,” Caine said.

  Lathe shrugged. “Okay. Just make sure you’re in your flexarmor, ready to go.”

  Thirty minutes out of Argent’s main traffic orbits, the call finally came. “Unidentified freighter on vector two-eight-zero, plus four-mark-nine, this is Argent Space Control. Identify yourselves.”

  Jensen gestured to the hand mike clamped to the control board. Picking it up, Lathe glanced at Caine and thumbed it on. “This is Trader First Class Donovan; special cargo from Magna Graecia. Request priority orbit insertion away from major lanes.”

  “Your landing ID code?”

  “I have none. This is a special cargo, as I said. I was given a code number and told to repeat it only to the Security Prefect’s office.”

  Caine could almost hear the traffic controller sit up straighter. “Understood. Ringing Security now,” he said. A minute passed and a new voice came on the speaker. “Security Prefect’s office; Lieutenant Peron. What’s this about a special cargo?”

  “That’s right,” Lathe said. “Special and hazardous. The code gamma-twelve should identify it to you.”

  “Who gave you that code?”

  “A Graecian Security officer—called himself Hydra. Look, he’s down there somewhere; just get him over there and he’ll confirm it.”

  There was a short pause. “We have no agent with that code name,” he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Are you sure he was a genuine Security agent?”

  “Positive, but I told you he works out of Magna Graecia, not Argent. He said he’d fly on ahead to get all the paperwork done so I could get rid of this stuff.”

  Another pause. “One moment.”

  Lathe turned off his mike. “Jensen, call down and order everyone into the pods. I don’t know how long I can keep them running in circles down there, and we may need to break fast.”

  Jensen nodded and began speaking softly into the intercom. Glancing out the viewport, Caine could see the edge of Argent’s blue-and-white disk, now less than a hundred thousand kilometers distant. A big, dangerous world—and the fact that he would be with eleven blackcollars didn’t seem nearly as reassuring as it had a few days ago.

  At the control board, the speaker again came to life. “This is Colonel Eakins, Assistant Security Prefect for Argent: Can you tell me anything more about this Hydra?”

  “I can describe him for you,” Lathe offered, launching into a three-minute description which seemed, to Caine, to be that of Plinry’s Prefect Galway. Perhaps, he thought, Lathe did have a sense of humor. “But if he’s not already down there I don’t know what’s happened.”

  “It’s possible he works directly under the Ryqril military governor,” Eakins rumbled. “We’ll send a message there right away. In the meantime, you’re cleared for deep polar orbit; we’ll feed course data to your computer.”

  A two-tone signal acknowledged receipt. “Thank you,” Lathe said. “And make sure everyone else stays clear of me. This stuff is damn touchy and I don’t want a drive backwash anywhere near it.”

  There was a short silence. “I think I understand,” Eakins said. “Very well. Argent out.”

  Lathe shut off the mike and replaced it in its clamps. “Just about in orbit,” Jensen reported. “When do you want to head in?”

  Lathe rubbed his dragonhead ring thoughtfully. “Let’s hold off as long as possible,” he suggested. “If we can study the territory we’ll have a better chance of finding a good landing spot.”

  “Right.” Jensen hit some switches and four display screens came to life.

  Lathe glanced at Caine before turning to the screens. “Caine, go to the bay and get into your pod. I don’t want you hanging around here until the last minute and then rushing to get strapped in.”

  Caine nodded. “Okay. See you below.” He hesitated. “Good luck, Jensen,” he added.

  The drop pods were shaped like truncated cones, each about three meters tall with a two-meter-diameter base. There were five of them crowded by the cargo hatch: two four-passenger models and three which would be carrying cargo plus one passenger. Jensen, who would still be flying when the others left, had a smaller pod stashed in the bridge’s emergency lock.

  The others were already in their places, and from the open pod doors came rustlings as straps and buckles were adjusted and double-checked. Crossing the floor, Caine peered into the narrow door of his pod. “There room for me in there yet?” he called.

  From the shadows inside, Skyler waved an arm. “Sure; come on up.”

  Stepping up over the pod’s thick ceramic heat shield, Caine squeezed through the opening and sidled a step to his right, twisting and ducking to avoid the three-dimensional maze of cables, straps, and bars hanging from the ceiling. Wedging himself between Vale and Novak, he strapped into his harness.

  And then came the waiting.

  Listening to the quiet conversation in the pod, studying the blackcollars’ faces, Caine was struck as never before by the underlying similarity between these men. Underneath their differences in style and manner was a deep feeling of…what? Strength, he decided, combined perhaps with a casual confidence—qualities hard to reconcile with the raging warriors of the legends. A bit disappointing, he had to admit; and yet, the quietness was somehow reassuring.

  They had been waiting nearly an hour when the pod abruptly jerked to the side as Jensen threw the freighter into a maneuver too fast for the artificial gravity to quite compensate. Conversation cut off instantly, and Caine could hear the muted whine of straining engines.

  “This is it,” Novak, by the pod door, announced grimly. He seemed unusually tense; but Caine knew it had nothing to do with the upcoming ride. He’d noted earlier in the trip that a special friendship existed between Jensen and Novak…and for several minutes after the others were gone Jensen was going to be a hellishly big target. “Shall I seal up?”

  “Wait’ll Lathe gets here,” Skyler told him.

  Seconds later the bay door slid open. “Button up, everyone,” Lathe called, loping to his pod. “Jensen will blow the hatch in less than a minute. When you pop, head due west.”

  Novak reached out and pulled the door closed, plunging the pod into darkness. In his imagination Caine coul
d see patrol ships diving toward them, threatening to open fire. Jensen would be stalling for time, claiming mechanical trouble, trying to get them in as close as possible—

  And with a dull blast the pod gave a spine-wrenching lurch. An instant later they were tumbling through space, twisting violently as the freighter’s turbulence caught them.

  Fortunately, it was only a few seconds before the pod settled into a relatively stable vertical position, with air resistance providing a small but noticeable effective weight. Outside, Caine could hear the faint hiss of air whipping by, and it was all he could do to keep from reminding Skyler to watch the altitude gauge.

  The minutes dragged by. Caine’s weight increased steadily as the pod slowed, and he could feel the floor heating up beneath him. The air around them was getting warm, too, and the scream of their passage made conversation impossible. Gripping the straps of his harness, Caine, tried to relax.

  “Stand by chute!” Skyler had to shout to be heard. “Three, two, one—”

  The first tug, as the drogue popped, was fairly gentle; the second, as the main chute snapped open, jammed Caine hard into his harness. Almost instantly the scream outside dropped to a whisper as full gravity returned. Getting his slightly trembling legs under him again, Caine took a careful breath. “Some ride,” he commented.

  “You think so?” Skyler said. His face, visible in the faint light of the luminous gauges, showed no more strain than his voice did. “We’re thinking of selling it to an amusement center. Okay. We’re two klicks up; breakout’s at one-five. Forty seconds—everyone set?”

  There were three affirmatives, and for a moment the pod was silent. “Five seconds; brace yourselves.”

  Caine tightened his grip on his harness…and with a jerk the pod’s walls split from floor to ceiling. The floor disintegrated, and the sudden inflow of air snapped the walls up like a broken umbrella. Still fastened by the harness to his section of wall, Caine was thrown outwards as the pod fell apart in midair.

  He had time only to notice that they had come in on Argent’s night side before something snapped in the wall section which now hung over his head; and, with a loud hissing of compressed air and the clicking of spring-loaded connectors, a shadowy wing unrolled and stiffened above him. Within seconds, Caine found himself lying horizontally in his harness, gliding swiftly through the cold night air.

  “Caine, you’re pointed the wrong way,” Skyler’s voice said in his ear. “Turn about twenty degrees left.”

  The plastic control bar hung just in front of him, and Caine felt a touch of trepidation as he grasped it with both hands. He’d trained with grav belts back on Earth, but they were a far cry from hang gliders. Gingerly, he pulled on the bar—

  The glider turned sharply left, and Caine got a glimpse of other dark wing shapes as he swung past the indicated direction. “Easy, easy,” Skyler said. “The steering is very sensitive.”

  “Read that ‘touchy,’ ” Caine muttered. He tried again and this time came around more smoothly.

  “Good. One more tap and you should be on course.”

  Caine did so and then took a moment to search the sky. “I only see two other gliders,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

  “Well, I’m above and behind you,” Skyler told him. “You can’t expect all the pods to come down within eyeshot of each other. That’s why someone always pops early, to act as spotter.”

  A new voice cut in. “Skyler, this is Kwon. Hit your UV, will you? Okay, turn it off. Your group together?”

  “Affirmative,” Skyler answered.

  “Okay. Shift south; you’re about half a klick north of O’Hara. Lathe? Okay; you’re ahead of O’Hara, so just hold course. Haven?” Pause. “Yo, Haven? Your UV?”

  “Must be broken,” Haven’s voice came back. “It’s okay, though; I can see Skyler ahead and left of me.”

  “All right,” Lathe said. “Our target is a wooded area about two klicks north of a medium-sized town. It’s about thirty klicks away—a bit of a stretch—but we spotted some hotspots from the ship, so hopefully we’ll get some assist from thermals. Kwon’ll signal via tingler if the IR shows anything promising. Strict radio silence once we’re back in tight formation.”

  The two gliders ahead of Caine had turned about fifteen degrees; carefully, he matched the maneuver. “Good turn,” Skyler commented. “Not hard to pick up, is it?”

  “No. Uh, Skyler, what exactly are we going to do once we get to this town?”

  “Contact the local underground, of course.”

  “Fine, but how do we do that? Just walk up to a local and ask for directions?”

  The blackcollar chuckled. “Not at all. It’s simpler to let ourselves get captured.”

  And with that the radio went silent. “Great,” Caine muttered to himself, and then settled down to concentrate on his flying.

  Like black-winged wraiths the eleven gliders slid silently along between the stars and the dark landscape.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE TINGLER ON CAINE’S wrist gave notice that the five-hour wait was over: bait returning; plus six and two vehicles. “They’re coming,” he said unnecessarily, scrambling to his feet and glancing south, as if in the pre-dawn light his eyes could penetrate the forest around them.

  “Yeah, I heard,” Hawking said dryly, standing up more leisurely. “You sound surprised they got out.”

  “Little town or not, a jail’s still a jail,” Caine said. In the clearing, the other four were already collecting backpacks and moving to the shelter of the trees. Spotting Skyler, he walked over to him. “I’ve been wondering about something,” he said quietly. “What if the guys who sprung Lathe and the others aren’t the underground?”

  “Who else would they be?” Haven, walking by with two packs, put in.

  “Security forces,” Caine suggested. “It would be an ideal way to infiltrate us and find out what we’re up to.”

  Skyler shook his head. “Interesting idea, but too devious for this stage of things—loyalty-conditioning tends to make people think in straight lines. They may try something that convoluted later, but not now.”

  Caine still had his doubts, but just then his tingler came to life, signaling the party’s arrival. Four of the six Argentians were accompanying Lathe’s group into the woods, while the other two stayed with the vehicles. Silently, the blackcollars faded into the perimeter of the clearing. Caine chose a position behind a thick bole, where he would have a good view. Heart pounding, he settled down to wait.

  He heard them shuffling through the dead leaves underfoot a good thirty seconds before they came into sight. Peering around his tree, Caine studied the four Argentians walking in a rough semicircle behind Lathe, Valen, Kwon, and Spadafora. They were dressed identically, in loose brown jumpsuits and military-style boots, with snug mesh-masks that reduced their facial features to vague shadows. Their weapons, pellet rifles of some kind, looked well cared for and were being held in a casually ready way that indicated good training.

  Lathe, in the lead, walked to the center of the clearing and stopped by a half-rotted tree trunk. The others stopped, too, and it seemed to Caine that the rifle barrels rose just a fraction.

  “Well? Where are the guns?” one of the Argentians demanded, and Caine blinked with surprise—it was a woman’s voice!

  “There aren’t any, I’m afraid,” Lathe said apologetically. “The gunsmuggler hints we dropped in town were really just to get your attention.”

  The guns definitely rose this time. “Cute,” the woman said, her voice icy. “Well, you have it. You’d better have a damn good explanation or you may wish you didn’t.”

  “It’s quite reasonable, actually,” Lathe told her. “We’ve just arrived on a special military mission and needed to link up with the underground. Letting ourselves be captured in a suitably out-of-the-way place where you could rescue us seemed the easiest way to do it.”

  “Uh-huh. Easy, but stupid. Suppose we hadn’t gotten you out?”

  �
�Oh, we could have escaped by ourselves,” Lathe shrugged. “Can you get us in touch with whoever’s in charge of your organization?”

  “Not so fast,” another Argentian—a man—growled. “Li, they’ve got to be spies. Let’s burn ’em and get the hell out of here.”

  “Sit on it, Rom,” the woman said. To Lathe: “He’s got a good case, you know, even though this sounds stupider than some of the things they’ve tried to suck us in on. Let’s start with your name and go on from there, shall we?”

  Lathe shrugged. “All right. I’m Comsquare Damon Lathe; Blackcollar Forces. We’re on a special mission from Plinry with the authority of General Kratochvil of Earth. For now that’s all I can say.”

  There was a murmur of surprise from the other three Argentians, but neither the woman nor her weapon so much as twitched. “Offworld blackcollar, eh? Well, it’s original—I’ll give it that. Can you prove it?”

  “I can try,” Lathe said. His hand curved—

  And three shuriken thudded into the dead tree trunk.

  Instantly, the Argentians spun around…or, rather, they tried to. But before Caine even realized they’d moved, Lathe and his companions had their rescuers’ weapons. And their rescuers.

  “Excuse the rough handling,” Lathe said mildly. He held the woman’s rifle in one hand; with the other he maintained a negligent-looking grip on her wrist which was somehow holding her motionless. “But we don’t carry ID cards.”

  “Doesn’t prove a thing,” one of the Argentians bit out, struggling unsuccessfully against Kwon and the wrist lock that had him on his knees. “Their rads threw those things to startle us—they jumped us when our backs were turned.”

  “Maybe yours was turned.” Surprisingly, the woman didn’t sound angry. “Mine wasn’t. And those ‘things’ are shuriken—genuine blackcollar weapons.” She nodded back toward the woods. “I’m convinced. You want to ask your rads in to join the party?”

  “Certainly,” Lathe said, releasing her arm and handing back her rifle. “What are rads?”

  “Your friends,” she said, accepting the weapon. Touching what was probably the safety, she slung it over her shoulder. “The guys who provided your handy little diversion.”