The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

  He spent the rest of the night erecting a false wall behind the elevator machinery, making it from a cloth hanging that was stiffened and color-camouflaged with one of the last cans of chameleon dye in the blackcollars’ arsenal. Moving his gear inside the cubbyhole, he got his airpad inflated and set up for what might be a long stretch of housekeeping. By the time the elevators began bringing the building’s employees to their jobs, he was fast asleep. Project Christmas had begun.

  Chapter 8

  GEOFF DUPRE ARRIVED HOME precisely at seven o’clock, and to Caine, at least, he was something of a surprise. Raina’s description of his job as a computer systems troubleshooter for the city’s vast water retrieval network had somehow led Caine to expect a large yet quiet, intellectual man. He was unprepared for the spirited off-key singing interspersed with tuneless whistling from the hulk who came through the back door. Came through the door, and froze at the sight of five oddly dressed strangers grouped around his wife and friend.

  “Your wife’s unhurt,” Caine said into the suddenly brittle silence. “We’re only going to be here a few more hours, and as long as you behave there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Dupre sent his gaze to each of the team in turn, then locked eyes with Caine. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice deep but surprisingly calm. “What do you want?”

  Raina broke in before Caine could answer. “They’re blackcollars, Geoff. They hijacked our truck out on Seventy-two—”

  “Just hitched a ride, actually,” Lindsay put in. “Caine here let me deliver the truck intact.”

  “Probably only to avoid stirring up attention.” Dupre snorted.

  “And also because we’re not here to steal,” Caine told him. “Whatever we need from you, we’ll pay for it.”

  Dupre considered that. “May I sit down?”

  Caine waved him to a sturdy-looking chair. The other lowered himself into it and again looked around the group. “Idunine must be cheap wherever you come from,” he commented. “All right, then. What do you want from us?”

  “For the moment, just shelter,” Caine said. “And perhaps some information. Did you fight in the war?”

  Dupre shook his head. “I have vague memories of it, but I was only three when it ended.”

  “Father? Older relatives? You know anyone who fought?”

  A frown creased Dupre’s forehead. “Not in Denver. My father lives in Sprinfielma, out near the east coast. No one talks about the war much here. At least not to me.”

  Caine pursed his lips. “Are there any veterans’ groups you know about? Aboveboard or otherwise? The phone directory doesn’t list anything obvious.”

  Dupre shrugged his massive shoulders. “I don’t know about anything like that.”

  Dead end. If Aegis Mountain’s emergency escape route had not, in fact, been collapsed when the base went silent, one of the men who’d been stationed there might be able to show them to its exit. But only if that hypothetical person could be found.

  The others were looking at him expectantly. “I guess we’ll have to find the old vets ourselves, then,” he said, trying to sound, confident. “In the meantime”—his eyes flicked to Braune and Colvin—“you two’d better get started. You have money?”

  Colvin nodded. Their Plinry marks, Caine had quickly discovered, wouldn’t pass as local currency, and he’d had to appropriate all the cash Raina and Lindsay had had on hand. It wasn’t a lot, but it would do at least for the clothing they needed. After that…well, they’d simply have to get creative. “Off you go, then,” he told the other two. “Watch yourselves.”

  They left. “I expect we’ll be out of your lives by tonight,” Caine told Lindsay and the Dupres. “Sooner if we can manage it.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Dupre asked quietly. “We aren’t stupid, you know. We know what blackcollars are like.”

  “They’re not from Denver, Geoff.” Lindsay spoke up unexpectedly in Caine’s support. “I don’t think they’re like…the stories we’ve heard.”

  Dupre looked at her, then back at Caine. “Maybe not,” he allowed, dropping his eyes with a slight shrug.

  And in that instant Caine knew the big man had made his decision. Sometime in the next few minutes, Dupre was going to make a break for it.

  It was a situation they’d discussed frequently in their classes, and Lathe had given them exactly two choices as to a response: block the attempt before it started, or defeat the attempt and thus plant a psychological block against a second try.

  And in this case the choice was clear. They couldn’t simply tie everyone up for the next few hours, and Caine knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the hideout search if he was worried about the skeleton guard he would be leaving behind. Besides, a little fear might slow the inevitable phone call to Security when they pulled out for good.

  “May I have a drink of water?” Dupre asked.

  Caine focused on him. The big man’s concept of a casual expression didn’t even begin to camouflage the determination beneath it. “Sure,” Caine told him, forcing unconcern into his own voice. “Raina, would you get it for him?”

  Silently, she got to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen, Pittman stepping to the doorway to watch her. The sound of running water; and then she was back, carrying two tall tumblers. “I brought one for you, too, Karen,” she said in a voice that trembled only slightly. Husband and wife were clearly on the same wavelength. She handed the two glasses to Dupre, started to reseat herself. Caine tensed, noting peripherally that his teammates were also ready—

  And Dupre leaped to his feet, hurling the water at Alamzad and Pittman as he charged toward Caine.

  Pittman ducked under the airborne wave, while Alamzad merely raised his arm to protect his eyes—and that was all Caine saw before Dupre, swinging the tumblers like short clubs, was on him.

  For all his size, the man wasn’t much of a fighter. Caine’s right foot snapped upward between Dupre’s waving arms to connect squarely with his solar plexus. The other whuffed with the blow, but his momentum kept him coming. Caine brought the foot down to his right, pivoting on his left foot into a crouch that left nothing in the path of Dupre’s charge except an outstretched leg at trip height. Dupre hit it full force as Caine assisted him over with a left backfist under the shoulder blade. The big man slammed to the floor and lay still.

  In the silence Caine heard a frustrated-sounding sob from the kitchen. He took a step toward the doorway as Pittman escorted a slump-shouldered Raina from the room. “Tried for the phone,” he explained to Caine as the woman returned to her chair.

  Caine glanced into the kitchen. The phone was lying open on the counter with about half its cord still attached. Embedded in the wall, near the rest of the cord, was a shuriken.

  Dupre had gotten to his knees now, holding his stomach. “Go sit down,” Caine told him shortly. “Next time it’ll hurt a lot more.”

  “Next time you decide to beat on him, you mean?” Lindsay growled.

  Caine turned to face her. “He brought that on himself.”

  “Don’t give me that,” she snapped. “You were ready for him—you knew he was going to try that.”

  “So?” Alamzad put in. “We didn’t make him act like an idiot.”

  Lindsay kept her eyes on Caine. “You could have tied him up. Or even just warned him before he did anything.”

  But he would have eventually tried it anyway, Caine almost said. But the words caught somewhere between his throat and the almost tangible contempt radiating from Lindsay’s face. The decision had been the right one, but no argument would ever convince her of that.

  For a while, he’d thought they were slowly winning her to their side. She’d almost believed they were different, and in five seconds all that had been lost. A potential ally was once more an enemy.

  He waited until Dupre was seated with the others and then retrieved the water glasses and returned them to the kitchen. Pulling on his flexarmor gloves to protect his hands, he b
egan working Pittman’s shuriken out of the wall. A simple enough job; with luck, he ought to be able to finish it without fouling something else up.

  Manx Reger’s estate was at the end of the long road that stretched southward from the main highway toward a set of tree-covered ridges that formed part of Denver’s western boundary. Large houses on large lots were sprinkled to either side of the road—a gauntlet, Lathe saw, that wasn’t nearly as innocent as it looked. At least twice he caught glimpses of watchers at various windows as he and Jensen drove up the road in their borrowed tow truck—watchers almost certainly on Reger’s payroll. Presumably they had guns, as well, and the comsquare mentally crossed off the road as a possible exit route if this whole thing fizzled.

  The estate itself was surrounded by a decorative fence: tall, obviously electrified, and impressive as hell in the early-morning sunlight. It was also probably highly effective at keeping stray rabbits off the grounds. Easing the truck to a halt before the gate, Lathe shook his head at the arrangement. Presumably Reger had motion sensors and laser-scan trackers in the woods inside the fence, but the fence itself was still pitiful.

  As, to some extent, were the two men who came out of cover beside the gate to confront the new arrivals. They were out in the open, their shoulder-slung machine pistols poorly hidden beneath their coats, and Lathe could have taken both before they could possibly have gotten their weapons clear. Expendables; and they were damned lucky Lathe didn’t need to expend them at the moment. Rubbing his palms on his borrowed yellow coveralls, Lathe settled his mind into his role and waited passively as the guards stepped up to the truck.

  “Yeah?” the first said, glancing back at the car on the tow truck’s sling as he came up to Lathe’s window. If he recognized the car as the one appropriated earlier that morning, he didn’t show it.

  “Got a delivery,” Lathe told him, jerking a thumb back toward the car. “Man told me to deliver it and a message here.”

  The other guard had gone back to give the car a brief inspection. “Okay,” the first said. “Lower it down; we’ll get it inside.”

  Lathe nodded at Jensen, seated beside him in an identical coverall, and the second blackcollar jumped out and disappeared toward the rear. “I also got a message I’m supposed to deliver to Mr. Reger. Personally, he said.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “He said personally,” Lathe insisted.

  “I don’t give a damn,” the guard growled. “I’m not getting Mr. Reger up at this hour for some stupid message.”

  Lathe licked his lips. “Look, uh…the guy didn’t seem like the sort to double-up on, if you know what I mean. If I don’t do this right—look, I’m not up this early ’cause I want to be. They came storming in—”

  “They?” the guard interrupted.

  “Yeah—three of ’em, dressed in black suits, just like the old blackcollar demos. Anyway—”

  And the guard finally made the connection. “Barky! Check the plates. Is that the car Winner lost tonight?”

  “Yeah,” the other called back. “Looks clean enough.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” His eyes shifted back to Lathe as he fumbled out a phone. “You get a good look at these guys?”

  “Well…good enough, I guess.”

  “Okay. Sit tight.” The guard backed a few steps, muttering into the phone. Jensen returned to his seat; a minute later the guard finished his conversation and climbed up onto the step beside Lathe’s window. “Okay, we’re going up to the house,” he said, swinging his weapon into sight—a flechette scattergun, Lathe noted—and resting its muzzle against the windowsill. “Either of you got any weapons, drop ’em out the window now. The driveway sensors pick something up, I’ll shred you.”

  Lathe shrank away from the barrel beside him. “No, no—we don’t need guns. I just handle a tow truck—”

  “Move it,” the other snarled.

  Ahead, the gate was opening. Keeping his movements jerky, as befit a highly nervous man, Lathe started the truck forward.

  The driveway was a long, winding one that passed back into the hills, the trees giving way eventually to elaborately sculpted yards and gardens surrounding a large house. Not exactly the estate of a multimillionaire, Lathe decided, but certainly no hovel, either. Reger would do; provided the man chose to cooperate.

  A half-dozen armed men were lined up by the mansion’s front door as they approached. Their guide stopped the truck fifty meters back and made them walk the rest of the way. “You, stay here,” one of the housemen told Jensen. “You”—this to Lathe—“come with me.”

  Another four guards joined them inside the carved wood door, and together they walked in silence down a richly carpeted hallway. Three turns later they reached a large study lit solely by a desk lamp swiveled to point at the door.

  Behind the glare, a dressing-gowned man was visible.

  “You got a message for me?” the man asked coolly as Lathe and his escort stepped into the room.

  “You Mr. Reger?” Lathe asked, eyes flicking about the room. Hidden gunport in the wall over Reger’s left shoulder, a second in the wall to his right. Useless at the moment, unless Reger was willing to cut down five of his own men along with Lathe. Which he might be perfectly willing to do, of course.

  “I am,” Reger answered with elaboration.

  “Okay.” Lathe shifted feet the way a simple man might under such abnormal circumstances, his hand clutching briefly at his right wrist and the tingler concealed there. Ten seconds. “The guy said your men were pretty amateurish and that you might like to hire some real fighters for a change.”

  “Why, you—” one of the guards snarled, jabbing Lathe’s side with his snubnose rifle.

  And Lathe moved.

  It was doubtful that any of the guards ever figured out precisely what happened to them in that first second. Lathe’s left arm swung at the gun barrel digging into his ribs, wrenching it from the owner’s grip as a reflexive shot shattered the quiet of the room. Jamming the captured gun back into its owner’s abdomen, Lathe simultaneously threw a hooking kick at the man on his immediate right, then swung the gun like a club at a third man’s face. The other ducked, his shot going wild, and then the blackcollar was on him with a three-punch combination that took him out of the fight for good. Behind him, the last two guards fired, but Lathe was already out of the way, flat on the floor with his legs sweeping his attackers’ out from under them. Both men crashed to the floor; and with a jab behind the ear of each to keep them quiet, Lathe finished his roll back to one knee with another captured flechette rifle in hand. A quick burst to each of the hidden gunports, and the muzzle came to rest lined up on the man behind the desk.

  Reger hadn’t moved. “Well?” he asked calmly.

  “Well what?” Lathe said. “As I said, your men are amateurs.”

  Reger’s eyes dropped briefly to the rifle. “You intend to use that on me?”

  “Not really. Consider it a conversation piece.” Lowering the gun to the floor, Lathe rose to his feet.

  “Good. You might take a look at the gunports you shot, then.”

  Frowning, Lathe did so. The dark wood was unmarked. “Blanks?”

  Reger nodded. “I couldn’t take the risk you’d be hurt. I see now how unlikely that was. Excuse me.” He leaned over slightly. “Stretcher team to my office,” he said. “Five injured. Should I send another team to the front door?” he added to Lathe.

  “Probably ought to.” The comsquare tapped his tingler. Okay, Jensen?

  Okay. In control. “Make that definite. And better have everyone else leave him alone out there.”

  “Of course.” Reger gave the orders, then leaned back in his chair and regarded Lathe thoughtfully. “After all, we can’t start off by fighting with our new allies, can we?”

  Lathe cocked his head. “Allies?”

  Reger’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You suggested we might want to hire real fighters. I presume that’s you.”

  The comsquare nodded, studying
the other for a moment. Something about the man seemed wrong, somehow, behind that concealing light. “I must say, you’re a cool one. When did you place us?”

  Reger waved a negligent hand. “Oh, right from the beginning. The road out there isn’t as innocent as it seems—I have watchers and sensors all along it. And of course my men got a good look at you at the bar.”

  “So why did you let us in?”

  “Curiosity. Blackcollars out for vengeance or destruction wouldn’t simply come walking up the front walk like you did. I thought it might be interesting to see what you wanted.”

  “It could have been fatal,” Lathe told him bluntly. “Even with the gimmicked guns.”

  “You weren’t carrying any of your shuriken or nunchaku weapons.” Reger shrugged again. “And I took some other precautions.”

  Lathe frowned…and suddenly understood. Reaching down, he picked up the rifle again and lobbed it gently over the desk.

  Reger didn’t move as the weapon arched neatly through his chest and chair and clattered to the floor behind.

  “My congratulations,” Lathe said. “An exceptionally good hologram. I didn’t know they could be made that realistic.”

  “All sleight-of-hand,” the other said modestly. “The light in your eyes is the key—even this one has the usual flat look when you see it under normal conditions. But most of the visitors I use it for don’t have the time to be that observant.”

  Lathe nodded. “So what happens now?”

  Reger folded his arms across his chest. “We discuss business, of course. Why don’t you start by telling me exactly what you want here.—Ah.”

  The “ah” was for the arrival of the medical team. Lathe watched them closely, half expecting them to suddenly sprout guns and attack. But they merely loaded the casualties onto stretchers and carted them off.

  “You were saying…?” Reger’s image said when they were gone.

  “We need information,” Lathe told him. “I’m guessing you have the connections to get it for us.”