The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

  For a moment the prefect studied him in silence. “Not easy, is it?” he said at last, his almost conversational tone sounding distant in Jensen’s ears. “Pain-block techniques don’t work very well against an indirect pain like vomiting.”

  “They work well enough,” Jensen rasped. “It’s still too early to start gloating.”

  Galway shook his head. “I don’t gloat over pain. If I’d had my way you’d already be dead.”

  Jensen blinked back the tears of fatigue and tried to read the other’s face. But there was no malice there; nothing but grimness and—Jensen thought—a touch of compassion. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

  “Don’t bother,” Galway retorted. “If I thought you knew anything worthwhile I wouldn’t mind them getting it out of you any way they could. But all we’re really doing is humiliating you for no justifiable reason. It’s a waste of time and ties down far too many men.”

  “Afraid I’ll escape?” Jensen asked. The picture of him breaking out of Security HQ in this condition almost made him smile.

  “Actually, yes.” Galway drew his laser from its holster, checked the safety, and laid the weapon in his lap. “Skyler and Novak are across the street right now, preparing to launch a rescue attempt.”

  Jensen’s already sore stomach muscles felt knotted up. No—that couldn’t be. Galway had to be lying.

  The prefect apparently misinterpreted Jensen’s expression. “Oh, don’t get any false hopes—they can’t possibly succeed. We know their penetration plan and one of our spies is with them. The minute they move we’ll have them in a pincer maneuver that’ll trap them between the outer wall and a squadron of battle-armored troops, away from any possible cover. They won’t get close enough for you to hear the noise.”

  Jensen dropped his eyes to the laser in Galway’s lap. “Then why are you here?”

  Galway’s smile was bitter. “I underestimated you once. I’m not going to do it again. Prefect Apostoleris still doesn’t understand how dangerous you are—perhaps because four of his spies have fooled one of you all these years. Whatever the reason, he still expects you to think and act in straight lines. And to behave like normal humans.”

  “Whereas we’re really elfin changelings, of course.” A wave of nausea swept over Jensen, and he clenched his teeth until it had passed.

  “You’re joking, but there’s a grain of truth there all the same. The more I see you in action the more I believe your training did something permanent to your minds. Made you…different. Monomaniacal, perhaps.”

  “Why? Because we don’t roll over and die for the convenience of the Ryqril?” Jensen shook his head tiredly. “Read your history, Galway. Human beings have never taken kindly to conquest. Guerrilla fighters have always harassed invaders, usually more successfully than their numbers would have indicated.”

  “Granted—but guerrillas need some measure of popular support and require the morale boost of frequent raids against the enemy. On Plinry you had neither, and yet could put together a devastating attack on a few hours’ notice.” Galway picked up his laser, ran a thumb thoughtfully along the muzzle. “Did you know my father was a member of the military study group in 2414 that made the blackcollar proposal? He was one of three dissenters, actually—he thought we should expand the Walking Tank program instead.”

  A short bark escaped Jensen’s lips. “There was a fiasco. There must be forty separate ways for an antiarmor missile to track a man in a fighting suit, and the Ryqril knew every one of them. There wasn’t a single ground battle after Navarre where the Walkers weren’t wiped out within the first half hour. Fighting suits are expensive suicide.”

  “I know. I wish he’d had his way, though. Plinry’s had enough grief without the trouble you’re about to bring down on her.” Galway’s eyes fixed on Jensen’s with sudden intensity. “Or don’t you care what the Ryqril will do to Plinry because of you?”

  “You can’t lay the blame for Ryqril reprisals on our shoulders,” Jensen said. “This is war, and we have a job to do. If you expect to make us tuck tail and slink off by threatening innocent people you aren’t even worthy of contempt.”

  “You misunderstand me,” Galway said, his voice quiet again. “I’m not trying to influence your actions. You’re hearing this because you won’t be rejoining your friends; because I—” He paused, then went on, “I suppose because I wanted someone to know that just because I’ve been loyalty-conditioned doesn’t mean I don’t care about the people of Plinry. I care a great deal—too much to see them suffer because of a showy mission that can’t succeed. That’s why I want all of you dead before you can cause any more trouble. The reprisals might be a little lighter.”

  For a moment Jensen remained silent, pain and fatigue almost forgotten. “You talk the high road well—I’ll give you that much. But how much is truth and how much rationalization for something your conditioning forces you to do anyway?”

  “I didn’t expect you to understand—” Galway broke off suddenly, his gaze focused on infinity. A moment later Jensen heard it too: a faint sound of running footsteps. Scooping up his laser, Galway slid off the stool into a crouching position, extending the weapon toward the door in stiff-armed marksman fashion. Heart pounding, Jensen took a deep breath and drew his last reserves of strength into readiness for one final surge.

  The wait was brief. Without warning, the door was abruptly flung open to crash against the wall.

  Galway’s first shot was a fraction of a second too slow, expending its energy in the doorframe as the black-clad figure charged in. A knife flashed into the invader’s hand as Galway corrected his aim; but before the prefect could fire, Jensen threw all his weight against the crucifix frame holding him, pushing forward with one arm and back with the other. The crosspiece rotated only a few degrees, but the motion was enough to catch Galway’s eye and reflexively twitch his laser a few centimeters toward Jensen. His second shot was another clean miss as the blackcollar’s right leg snapped into Galway’s forearm, knocking the laser aside; his knife arced toward the prefect’s throat—”

  “Don’t kill him!” Jensen croaked.

  But the blackcollar was already shifting the knife in his hand, turning the hilt so that the blade stuck out to the side as his fist rammed instead into Galway’s throat. The prefect toppled with a strangled gasp; even before he hit the ground the blackcollar had turned and sliced the first of Jensen’s restraints.

  And for the first time Jensen was able to see the Caucasian features behind his goggles. “Skyler?” he gasped.

  “Yes,” the other confirmed. His knife flashed a half dozen more times and Jensen was free.

  “Where’s Novak?” he asked, getting shakily to his feet. Only Skyler’s quick hand kept him from falling on his face as his legs buckled and sent him slamming back into his chair.

  “Take it easy,” Skyler told him. “We’ve got a little time.”

  “Like hell,” Jensen gasped, waiting for the white spots to go away. “This place is one gigantic deathtrap.”

  “We noticed.” Skyler stepped over to the unconscious Galway and began removing his gray-green tunic. “But they’ve temporarily outsmarted themselves. Their main force was deployed outside the wall waiting for us, and they’re still trying to catch up. Aside from the control center area down the hall the building itself is relatively clear of armed guards.”

  “Sure.” Jensen couldn’t even count the dirty-gray wrinkle marks of laser hits and near-misses on the other’s flexarmor.

  “Well, it is now.” Skyler began helping Jensen into Galway’s uniform. “I wish we had some flexarmor for you, but the spy they planted on us wasn’t your size.”

  Jensen swallowed, concentrating on getting dressed. A dozen questions swirled through the fog in his brain, but only one got out: “Where’s Novak?”

  “He’s—seeing to our escape route.”

  Something in his voice cut through the haze. “What do you mean? What’s he doing?”

  Skyler knelt
to help Jensen on with Galway’s boots. “The control room has to be taken out—they coordinate all Security operations for Millaire and everything around it. But it’s behind a thick wall, stronger than our explosives can handle.”

  “Novak’s gone in?” A burst of near-panic rose into Jensen’s throat; shrugging off Skyler’s hand, he forced himself to his feet. This time he stayed up. “Come on, we’ve got…to help him,” he gasped. “Have to be guards…in there—”

  Before the words were out of his mouth the room abruptly rocked slightly as the vibration of an explosion rippled through the floor. “What—?” he began.

  Skyler’s answer was action. Without a word he hauled Jensen over his shoulder in a modified fireman’s carry and made for the door. Glancing quickly both directions down the hall, he headed off to his right—and it was only then that Jensen suddenly realized that the brief vibration of the earlier explosion had been replaced by an ominous rumbling that seemed to come from all around them.

  And then the ceiling began to fall in.

  For Jensen, still weak and drug-groggy, the sprint down the hall seemed almost an extension of the nightmare preceding it. The world bounced crazily, chunks of it throwing themselves at him, while a roar like a rock crusher filled his ears. Skyler reached the end of the hall, broke sharply left, and skidded to a halt three steps later by a long, featureless wall. Dropping Jensen almost roughly to the shaking floor, he crouched protectively over him. The roar continued; Jensen began to cough violently as the rising cloud of dust found its way into his lungs. Somewhere in the chaos the lights went out, and as his cough turned into dry retching Jensen felt as if he were being buried alive—

  And then it was all over. The floor steadied as the roar faded, and Jensen managed to get his cough under control. Through watery eyes, Skyler was a dimly lit figure rising to his feet above him.

  Dimly lit?

  Jensen turned his head. Barely twenty meters away the litter-strewn hallway ended abruptly in a ragged opening, through which the glow of Millaire’s lights was filtering. Listening more carefully, he discovered he could hear faint shouts and occasional screams of pain.

  Skyler had his arm and was helping him to his feet. “Novak?” he asked. The question was almost rhetorical; he knew now what had happened.

  Skyler nodded anyway as, together, the two men moved carefully toward the opening ahead. “From the floor plans and external design he calculated that the control room was built around the main vertical support for the west end of the building. It was a big risk, but the interrogation rooms were close enough to the central section’s main load-bearing wall that he thought we’d be safe.”

  “He was still in the control room when the blast went off, wasn’t he.”

  Skyler hesitated, then nodded. “We didn’t have enough power to just toss in a bomb and run. The explosives had to be carefully placed against the support. There was only a slim chance he’d be able to set them and get out…and he would’ve used his tingler if he’d made it.” The big blackcollar paused. “I’m sorry, Jensen. He wouldn’t let me take his place.”

  “You should have left me here.”

  “He wouldn’t have agreed to that, either.”

  “I know.” Jensen stumbled a bit as they topped the rubble at the broken end of the hall, but Skyler’s arm around his waist kept him upright. Outside, there was an incredible amount of broken building material littering a courtyard sort of place. A wall forming the outer edge of the courtyard had been breached in at least three places; it was toward one of these that Skyler led him. “What about collie guards?” he asked.

  “If Novak timed it as he planned, most of them were probably in the section that collapsed. Watch your step,” he added as Jensen again stumbled. “We need to get out of here before the collies pull whatever’s left of their force together. With luck all this junk cleared out the mines for us—if neither of us sprains an ankle we should make it to the car all right.”

  Jensen nodded. The walk was rapidly draining his last reserves of strength, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. “Skyler. Galway told me there were four spies in Radix—said they’d fooled a blackcollar here.”

  “All four, huh?” Skyler said grimly. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

  “I want to kill them.”

  There was a short pause. “We’ll get them—don’t worry. That was Galway, then,” he added, as if wanting to change the subject. “I thought I was seeing things. Did I hear you tell me not to kill him, incidentally?”

  Hazy spots were starting to flicker across Jensen’s vision. “Yes,” he said, his voice fading away into the distance. “It was…something I owed…Plinry.”

  The last thing he knew before sliding into the darkness was the feel of Skyler’s arm around his waist.

  CHAPTER 28

  MORDECAI FOUND THE PROPER door and paused for a moment outside it, listening. Faint voices were audible; despite the late hour, the room’s occupants were still awake. Throwing one last glance down the deserted hallway, he tapped gently on the door.

  It opened a few seconds later. “Mordecai!” Fuess said, his expression running through surprise to welcome. “Well, come in.”

  Mordecai brushed past him, letting the Argentian close the door, and gave the room a fast once-over. Fairly large and nicely furnished, he decided. Against opposite walls were two sets of bunk beds, each with a double-sized military locker at its foot. In the center was an oval table; sitting on opposite sides, playing cards still in their hands, were McKitterick and Couturie.

  “Hello.” Couturie nodded at Mordecai, laying his cards down and getting to his feet. His dragonhead ring glinted with the movement. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Mordecai shook his head. “No. This isn’t a social call.”

  Fuess came around from behind him to stand behind McKitterick. “What can we do for you, then?” he asked.

  “Lathe just got a call from a public phone a few klicks outside Millaire. It was Skyler. He had Jensen with him.”

  They were good, all right. Not a flicker of surprise crossed any of their faces, and Fuess’s comment was immediate and enthusiastic. “They got him out? Great! When’re they due back?”

  “Soon,” Mordecai told him. “There were casualties—Novak and Valentine both.”

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Fuess’s face, quickly vanishing. “Damn stinking quizlers,” he growled.

  Mordecai shook his head. “Don’t blame them for Valentine’s death. Skyler had him executed—as a traitor.”

  “What?” Fuess and Couturie exclaimed together. McKitterick merely looked stunned.

  “You heard me. Your friend was a collie spy.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Couturie snorted. “He was blackcollar!”

  Mordecai regarded the indignant Argentian. “Did you serve with him in the war? Or personally know anyone who did?”

  Couturie hesitated at the edge of the trap. “Well…no. But I’ve heard him describe operations that I know took place.”

  “So what? I can describe some operations of the Crimean War back on Earth.”

  “Are you implying,” Fuess said slowly, “that Valentine wasn’t a blackcollar at all?”

  “Very good. But several years late in coming. Why didn’t you ever suspect him before?”

  No look passed between them; but almost as if on signal Fuess and Couturie began a nearly imperceptible movement away from their respective sides of the table. For Mordecai it was as good as an admission of guilt: they’d traced his line of questioning to its logical conclusion and were moving to flank him. “You make it sound easy to tell a fraud from a true blackcollar who’s suffered neural damage,” McKitterick said, his tone halfway between hostile and injured. “I understand your own man Dodds got nailed by those gases—why wasn’t he killed?”

  “Because he wasn’t a spy like Valentine was…or you three are.”

  Their lack of facial reaction was simply more proof that they’d anticipated this con
clusion. “You’re insane,” Fuess declared. “Stark raving insane. Where do you get off making an unwarranted accusation like that?”

  Mordecai eyed him. “If I were you, I’d think up a better defense than my insanity. I’ve seen you in action, remember? It takes more than Backlash reflexes to make a blackcollar—a sense of teamwork and respect for authority, for example.”

  “So I’m not the perfect blackcollar. Is that a crime?”

  “And what about us?” McKitterick added quietly. He was still sitting with his legs under the table, and for a moment Mordecai wondered about him. Was he in fact innocent, or had he merely missed the signal to prepare for action? “You’ve hardly even seen Couturie or me except at tactical group meetings—certainly never in a combat situation. How can you presume to judge us?”

  Mordecai’s lip twitched in a tight smile. “Cutting yourselves loose from the condemned so soon? The years haven’t built up much loyalty, have they.”

  “Our loyalty is with Radix, where it’s always been,” Couturie told him. He took a step around the curve of the table as if heading toward Fuess, a move that brought him closer to Mordecai and farther to the blackcollar’s side. “And if Fuess is a traitor—”

  “Wait a second,” Fuess objected, panic filtering into his voice. “You’re going to take his word—”

  Again, there was no visible signal; but halfway through Fuess’s sentence they launched their attack. From his chair McKitterick heaved the table toward Mordecai; simultaneously, Fuess and Couturie leaped in to flank the blackcollar. It was as well-coordinated an action as Mordecai had ever seen, and against an average blackcollar it might have had a chance.

  But he was Mordecai, and no other fight could ever have prepared them for him. Even as the table came crashing over, the blackcollar took a swift step to his right, moving directly into Fuess’s attack and out of range of Couturie’s. Fuess was ready; his foot snapped out in a side kick toward Mordecai’s knee and his hands flashed in a backfist-reverse punch combination toward head and abdomen. Mordecai didn’t even bother to block the attacks, but merely turned and bent the few centimeters necessary to send them flying past his body. His own counterattack was more effective: spinning a hundred eighty degrees, he sent a reverse kick into Fuess’s ribcage that threw him a meter backwards to smash into one of the lockers. Mordecai came out of the kick, facing, the center of the room again; and even as Fuess collapsed to the floor Couturie caught up with him.