The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

  “Forty men? What happened to your half-million rabid patriots?”

  Tremayne kept his temper. “We’ve isolated the Calarand group from the rest of Radix, in case something goes wrong.”

  “Great. What do we do if we need more—take out ads?”

  “We’re keeping the Janus group here for the duration. That’s another ten people available in emergencies.”

  “Somehow, I get the impression you don’t really trust us,” Haven, spoke up from somewhere behind Caine. “We really aren’t here to betray you, you know.”

  “But you might do just that—accidentally, of course,” Miles Cameron said. “Argent Security is very sharp, and some of their techniques are probably different from what you’re used to. We can’t risk everything for some scheme we know nothing about.”

  “That happens all the time in a war,” Lathe pointed out. “That’s why you have a general staff and chain of command instead of deciding things at a mass meeting of the troops.”

  “You can’t expect military precision from us, Comsquare,” Faye spoke up as Cameron’s face darkened. “The war was a long time ago, and most of us weren’t very deep in the military system.”

  Lathe gave her an appraising look. “Were you?”

  She shrugged modestly. “A bit. I was on the tactical staff of General Cordwainer’s Sector Command.”

  “I’m impressed. Also surprised the Ryqril let you run around loose.”

  “Actually, they don’t know about me,” she admitted. “The records got destroyed—these things happen.”

  Lathe smiled and looked back at Bakshi. “Miss Picciano’s point is well taken. I withdraw any and all unkind remarks. Perhaps an assault won’t be necessary. Do you have any data on the prison itself?”

  “Quite a lot,” Tremayne said, sounding relieved. “Miles?”

  Cameron reached down to a case by his chair and extracted a thick file. Opening it, he chose several papers and photos and slid them across the table to Lathe. “Henslowe Prison,” he announced.

  Caine craned his neck to see. The prison was an unimaginative fifteen-story rectangle made of a stony-looking material and sitting squarely in the center of an otherwise empty block. Narrow windows lined the walls from the third floor to the thirteenth, with larger windows on the top two floors. Armed guards patrolled the four-meter-high perimeter mesh fence, and the massive gate was flanked by guardhouses. A street map showed the prison to be about a hundred meters inside the wall marking the edge of the Strip. “Where are the veterans being held?” Caine asked.

  “Eighth floor, south side, if the quizlers are playing things as usual,” Cameron said. “They can see over the wall from there; I expect that’s done on purpose to make them homesick.”

  “Security here does things like that?” Lathe asked.

  Fuess growled deep in his throat, grinding his dragonhead ring almost savagely into his palm. “Security Prefect Apostoleris was hatched from a Ryq and a tarlegan lizard,” he said with disgust. “If he wasn’t so canny with his own skin we would have killed him long ago. But we’ll get him yet.”

  Caine looked at the glowering blackcollar, something stirring within him. This, finally, was the fire he’d expected of the legendary blackcollar warriors, the anger and drive whose absence on Plinry had been such a disappointment. Looking at the relatively youthful faces across the table, he wondered suddenly if the difference could lie in the extra Idunine the Argentians had clearly received over the years. Could the quiet calmness he’d seen in Lathe’s men actually be more a sign of weakness than of strength? That wasn’t a very pleasant thought.

  Tremayne was speaking again. “Fortunately, most Security operations in Calarand are headed by the Assistant Prefect, Colonel Eakins. He’s dangerous enough but generally pretty restrained—he doesn’t overreact and execute innocent people after one of our raids, for instance, like Apostoleris occasionally does. But the prison system is directly under the prefect’s command.”

  “Hmm.” Lathe studied the diagrams, rubbing his dragonhead gently. “What sort of weapons do the guards carry?”

  “The outside men and those in the administrative areas have laser rifles and paral-dart pistols,” Cameron said. “Cell-block guards just carry the dart guns.”

  Caine felt his cheek twitch. Several different paral drugs were in use back on Earth, none of which was much fun. “Which drug do they use?” he asked.

  “It’s called Paralyte-IX, if that helps,” Cameron told him. “It causes instantaneous muscle relaxation at the point of entry and spreads to the rest of the system in under a minute. The guns use scatter-shell loadings, so you usually catch a dozen or more of the darts when you’re shot.”

  “Dissolving darts, I presume?” Lathe asked.

  Cameron nodded. “It takes a few minutes for them to disappear completely into the bloodstream, though, and since the sensory nerves are only partially paralyzed you can usually feel them that whole time.”

  Lathe nodded. “Is there an antidote, or does it just have to wear off?”

  “Oh, there’s an antidote, all right, and we’ve got a fair supply of it. Unfortunately, it happens to be a poison unless Paralyte-IX is already in your system.”

  “No big surprise,” Novak put in from across the room, where he seemed to be examining the woodwork. “Obviously, any drug you could immunize yourself against would be pretty useless.”

  Cameron bristled. “Forgive me if I’m boring you, Commando—”

  “Not boring at all, Mr. Cameron,” Lathe soothed. “We haven’t had much experience with paral-guns since the war ended.”

  “Plinry Security doesn’t use them?” Faye asked.

  “Not very often,” Lathe said. “Tremayne, I’d like to spend a couple of days getting acquainted with the city. Can we get some maps and vehicles?”

  Stuart York made a note on a pad in front of him. “I’ll have some cars assigned to you,” he said.

  Tremayne gestured at the Henslowe file. “Any ideas yet?”

  Lathe shook his head. “For now I’d like to borrow the packet and look it over some more.”

  Silently, Cameron replaced the papers in the file and handed it over. Lathe nodded his thanks and looked back at Tremayne. “Any late word on Jensen?”

  “Or any other ships that may have landed?” Caine added.

  “Other ships?” Tremayne frowned, glancing at Bakshi and Cameron. “Are you expecting someone else?”

  “Someone will eventually come from Plinry with the news of our rather abrupt leave-taking,” Lathe spoke up quickly. “We’ll need to be well-hidden by then, since they’ll be bringing ID data on us.”

  Caine turned to the old blackcollar, but before he could explain that that wasn’t what he meant a foot came down on top of his—not hard, exactly, but with clear warning. Swallowing, he kept his mouth shut.

  The frown was still on Tremayne’s face. “I see. Well, you can either stay here or move to one of our other safe houses. As to Commando Jensen, there’s still no word on him.” He shifted his glance to the right. “Fuess, you’ll act as guide to Lathe’s team while they learn their way around.”

  Fuess gave the closed-fist salute Caine had seen Bakshi use earlier. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then. Unless there’s anything else…?”

  “I’ve got one question,” Caine said.

  All eyes turned to him. “Yes?” Tremayne asked.

  “Coming in to Argent we heard a Ryqril military governor mentioned. How actively are the Ryqril involved in things here?”

  Salli shifted her matronly bulk uncomfortably. “More than we’d like,” she admitted. “Besides their six bases, they also maintain private areas in many of the main cities, Calarand included. Chances are you won’t run into them, though.”

  “Of course, whatever you do at Henslowe could change things,” Faye pointed out. “Perhaps we should talk about Ryqril tactics sometime; this close to a war zone their methods might be different than what you’re used to
.”

  “Good idea,” Lathe agreed. “I’ll let you know when a good time would be.”

  She smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Other questions?” Tremayne asked. “All right, then, that’s all for now.”

  Chairs squeaked as people began to get up. York, sitting, next to Caine, tapped the younger man’s arm. “About those vehicles: you have a preference for either open—that’s with full wraparound windows—or enclosed style?”

  “Enclosed,” Lathe said before Caine could answer. “Haven here can go down with you if you’d like and show you what we’ll need.”

  York nodded. “Fine. Commando?”

  “Let’s get back,” Lathe said to Caine as Haven and York headed for the door.

  Caine glared at the comsquare. “What are you, my private wet nurse? I can answer my own questions.”

  Lathe had Caine’s arm and was steering him gently but inexorably toward the door. “I know you can,” he said. “We’ll talk about that when we’re back in our rooms.”

  “Lathe—”

  Novak materialized on Caine’s other side. “Never argue with your comsquare in public, Caine,” he advised quietly. “Especially an unknown public.”

  Fuess was waiting at the door. “Anything I can do for you, Comsquare?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you get some maps of Calarand and meet us back at our quarters,” Lathe suggested. “I’d like to go over them with you if you have time.”

  “Certainly.”

  Fuess headed off in another direction as Caine and the two blackcollars made their way to their rooms. Inside, Caine turned to Lathe; but the old blackcollar got in the first word.

  “From now on, Caine, the less you talk to the Argentians the better,” he said. “Pretend you’re the strong, silent type who thinks deep thoughts, okay?”

  “Not okay,” Caine said. “Why am I suddenly incapable of speaking for myself?”

  “The speaking isn’t the problem; it’s the knowing when to stop. Specifically, you were all set to tell them Dodds was out there with a stolen Corsair.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Number one: I’m telling you not to. And number two: never, never tell people more than you need to. At best, it’s stupid; at worst, it’s suicidal.”

  Caine snorted. “A fine ally you are. Those people are on our side.”

  “Most of them are, sure. They’re not the ones I’m worried about.”

  “What, you think there might be a spy in that group? That’s crazy—the government would have crushed them long ago.”

  “Not necessarily. It’s often more profitable to leave the structure in place and simply neutralize it. Don’t forget Tremayne himself admitted their raids weren’t very successful.”

  Caine pursed his lips. He still felt resentful, but Lathe was making uncomfortable sense. “Going to be hard for them to help, though, when they don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “They’ll know what they have, to, when they have to—and I’ll make those decisions.”

  “Yeah.” Taking a half step closer to Lathe, Caine lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lathe, what exactly is Dodds up to?”

  Lathe returned the gaze steadily. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Your secrecy rule applies to friends, too? Or do you still think I’m a spy?”

  “No, I think I can trust you. But knowing Dodds’s mission won’t do you any good, and could do us harm.”

  “It would help my peace of mind.”

  Lathe gave him a look of strained patience. “What do you want me to do—make something up? I said I can’t tell you.” Turning on his heel, the comsquare left, walking over to the table where Hawking had some of his electronic gear laid out. A few soft words and Hawking nodded and began clearing off some space.

  Caine didn’t watch anymore, but went over to his bunk and lay down, trying not to be too angry. What the hell, he wondered, was Dodds up to that was so all-fired important? Lathe’s point about secrecy was reasonable enough, but Caine’s interest wasn’t exactly idle curiosity. His life and mission were on the line here, and Lathe had no right to keep any knowledge to himself that might affect either of those.

  There was a knock at the door, and Caine turned his head as Kwon let Fuess in. The Argentian carried a stack of papers and, at Kwon’s direction, took them to the newly cleared table. Lathe and Skyler were seated there, and the other blackcollars were drifting in that direction. Rolling out of his bunk, Caine went over to join them. At least, he thought firmly, Lathe wouldn’t keep him from learning how to get around the city.

  His map of Calarand in hand, Lathe strolled over to Skyler’s bunk, glanced around to make sure no one was within easy earshot. “Make some room,” he said.

  Still studying his own map, Skyler moved his feet over. Lathe sat down and nodded toward the door. “What did you think of him?” the comsquare asked.

  “Fuess?” Skyler shrugged. “A real fireball. Ryq-hatred oozing from every pore. Novak told me all four of them are like that.”

  “Yeah. Strikes me as odd that they’ve stayed alive this long, given how half-cocked that type usually is.”

  “Says a lot for Bakshi’s leadership and discipline, obviously.”

  “Maybe.” Lathe surveyed the room. “We’re going to have to split up as soon as possible—we’re too centralized here, too vulnerable to attack.”

  “Or surveillance,” Skyler nodded. “Though most of that should be aimed at you or Caine. Did your excuse for hauling Novak and Haven to that meeting fool anyone, by the way?”

  “I doubt it,” Lathe admitted. “Bodyguards look like bodyguards no matter how they’re packaged. Odds are somebody’s figured out by now that he’s more important than we’re letting on.”

  “Well, it was a nice try, anyway,” Skyler said. “I’ll take O’Hara and Spadafora out later and find a good hideout or two. I wouldn’t count on getting anything more secure than this place, though.” He cocked an eyebrow. “From the questions you were asking Fuess I’d say you’ve already got an attack plan in mind for the prison. Care to let me in on it?”

  “Not yet. I need to work out more of the details. Tell me, who would you say has the toughest constitution of all of us?”

  Skyler glanced around the room. One of his best attributes, Lathe thought: he didn’t ask unnecessary questions. “I’d say O’Hara, Mordecai, and Haven, in that order. Vale would know—he’s practically got our medical histories memorized.”

  Lathe nodded. “I’ll talk to him, but your opinion jibes with mine. While you’re out later look for a separate, out-of-the-way place where three men could stay, all right?”

  “Okay. When will we be moving against the prison? A day or two?”

  Lathe hesitated. “More like a week.”

  Skyler’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “I would have thought you’d want to finish up before the collies got their balance back.”

  “Some delays are unavoidable. But we’ll save all the time I thought it would take to gather the vets together, so we should come out about even. Talk to you later.”

  He stood up and looked around. Vale was lying on a bunk across the room, apparently asleep. Lathe hesitated, decided his questions and orders would keep, and went over to his own cot to lie down. He was more fatigued than he cared to admit—he’d forgotten how much of a strain leadership could be, especially under conditions like these. Bad enough to be fighting on a foreign world, let alone one where your allies weren’t fully on your side. He could work around that…but the growing discontent in Caine’s eyes was something else entirely. Caine still held the key to this mission, and if his questions about Dodds sprouted into full-fledged suspicions, it could mean disaster.

  The faces of Lathe’s old blackcollar squad rose unbidden behind the comsquare’s eyelids. He blinked once, to drive them away. His new squad would not die like his first had, he told himself firmly. He was too old to go through
that again.

  Rolling onto his side, he set his mental alarm for two hours and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  GLINTING BRIGHTLY IN THE noonday sun, the needle-shaped patrol boat hovered in place for a second before settling into the clearing near the winding dirt road and parked vehicles at the edge of the Security base camp. A half-dozen men emerged almost immediately and walked into the rough semicircle of tents, disappearing into a square tent near one end of the ring. The main command post, Jensen decided. A few minutes later another six men left the tent, walking with the bounce of fresh troops. Climbing into the boat, they took off and headed west.

  Lowering his binoculars, Jensen rubbed his eyes. He’d been sitting above the camp for the past hour, observing events below and deciding on the best way to get in and out again. It was a risky proposition, to be sure; even with nearly everyone out chasing around the mountains, he estimated there were between ten and twenty men still in camp. The odds weren’t good, but by their very nature they provided him the advantage of surprise. No fugitive in his right mind—in which category Jensen included himself—would normally go anywhere near an enemy stronghold, let alone consider sneaking in. But in enemy territory food and transportation were vital, and both of those were to be had below. Stowing his binoculars in his pack, he got to his feet and edged his way down the slope.

  There were no trip wires or other intruder-detection devices at the edge of camp that Jensen could detect. Moving like a gentle breeze, he worked his way around to a point opposite the road and landing area. Once, he had to freeze among the trees as the patrol boat crew came out of the command tent and crossed over to a long structure that seemed to be a barracks. Cautiously, trying to watch every direction at once, Jensen slipped to the front of the nearest tent and looked inside.

  It was someone’s quarters, currently unoccupied. Officers’ quarters, most likely—and where there were officers there were spare officers’ uniforms. With one final glance around, Jensen went inside.

  Moments later he was back in the tent’s entrance, attired in the distinctive gray-green he’d fought against for so long on Plinry. There was a time, he remembered wryly, when he would have felt defiled to be wearing a collie uniform. Now, he merely felt a little safer.