The Blackcollar Series

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The Blackcollar Series Page 62

by Timothy Zahn


  “So maybe we’d better concentrate on finding Torch instead,” Skyler said quietly. “If they’re still here.”

  Lathe nodded, looking around them. “I’ll admit the place seems deserted. But they were here…so where did they go?”

  “Back outside?” Colvin suggested. “Maybe they just stuck around long enough to ice their trail and then took off for parts unknown.”

  “This is an awful lot of work to go to just to hide out,” Alamzad said. “Unless they’ve just taken off temporarily to avoid seeing us.”

  “How would they have known we were coming?” Jensen asked.

  “Oh, the base’s phone lines are probably still operational,” Bernhard said. “Maybe your friend Anne Silcox knows more about where her comrades went than she lets on.”

  “There may be a simpler explanation,” Lathe said slowly. “Bernhard, where did you say the medical facilities are?”

  They found them there, thirty-eight of them, in various parts of the brightly lit level-five medical complex. Men and women both, ages ranging from young adult to late middle age.

  All of them dead.

  “Damn,” Braune whispered as they walked carefully among the bodies. “Damn.”

  “What happened?” Lathe asked Hawking as the latter rose from a brief examination of one of the bodies.

  Hawking shook his head. “Vale’s the one with the real medical knowledge, but it looks to me as if they were poisoned. You’ll note there’s been no visible decay—that’s characteristic of some types of poisons. If I had to guess, I’d say it was something low-level they ingested over a long period of time.”

  “Not ingested,” Bernhard said from across the room. “Inhaled.”

  Alamzad swore under his breath. “The gas attack that knocked the base out in the first place. And the missing filters from out in the tunnel.”

  “They knew,” Skyler murmured. “We’ll probably find the filters set up in their living quarters somewhere around here. They knew they were dying and tried to fight back.”

  “And yet they didn’t leave,” Lathe mused. “I wonder what they were doing down here that they considered that important.”

  “Never mind them,” Pittman put in. “What about us, now that we’re here? Will our gas filters be enough to protect us?”

  “We won’t be here long enough to build up a real dosage of the stuff,” Lathe assured him. “Caine, there must be a separate computer for the medical section. It’s a long shot, but let’s see if they might have put your information in it.” His eyes found Skyler. “The rest of you, spread out, see what else is around here.”

  The medical computer turned out to be across an untended environmental area in a building that also housed the main labs and several more bodies. “At least it’s got power,” Caine said, wincing as he rolled a corpse-laden chair out from in front of the console and tried a couple of commands. “Let’s see if I can get on.”

  “If you can’t, we’ll ask Bernhard if he knows any special passwords,” Lathe told him. “I’m going to take a look around the rest of the building. Signal if you find anything useful.”

  He left. “All right,” Caine muttered, snaring another chair and sitting down before the keyboard. Computer usage had been fairly standardized throughout the TDE before the war, and his Resistance tutors had given him the most common military passwords. Keying one in, he began his search.

  It took only about an hour to try all the passwords he knew and to run through the directories they accessed, and when he’d finished he leaned back in his chair and sighed. Nothing. No mention of Backlash; no files tied in with the word blackcollar except for a few medical records.

  Which meant that Lathe’s hoped-for long shot hadn’t panned out. If the Backlash formula was indeed in Aegis, it had to be upon level three.

  Caine glared at the screen. Getting in there would be a major project all its own—and a dangerous one, if Bernhard could be believed. Still, military computer systems often had overlapped files. Perhaps he could at least find out how to reenergize the command level from here. He was just beginning a second search of the directories when his tingler came on. Caine: Come to the number-two lab—fourth door down the hall.

  Lathe met him at the lab’s door, an odd expression on his face. “Any luck?” the comsquare asked.

  “None,” Caine told him. “Looks like we’re going to have to get into the main machine upstairs, after all.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Come take a look at this.”

  Frowning, Caine stepped past him into the room…and stopped short with surprise.”

  Another twenty or more bodies were inside, most of them lying in cots but a few slumped over lab tables. The lab tables themselves…

  “What the hell were they doing in here, anyway?” Caine asked. “Place looks like a robotless genetics assembly line.”

  “It does at that,” Lathe agreed. “I’d expected to find what was left of Torch on this level, because they’d have come to the med section to fight against their poisoning. But it looks now as if they were set up here from the very beginning.”

  “That long?” Caine frowned.

  “The indications are here. But hang on to your teeth—the real kicker is over here.”

  Lathe led the way around one of the long tables to a cluttered desk squeezed between a pair of chem-assemble machines. A man lay across the papers and disks there, looking for all the world as if he’d settled down for a short nap and never awakened. A ledger-type book sat open before him, and it was to the heading on the left-hand page that Lathe silently pointed. Caine leaned over and read it…

  “PRODUCTION SCHEDULE,” was written there in a bold, firm handwriting, “DOSAGES OF WHIPLASH PER DAY FOR WEEK ENDING…”

  “Whiplash?” Caine frowned. “What the hell is—”

  He stopped abruptly. “Are you thinking,” he asked the comsquare slowly, “the same thing I am?”

  “We won’t know for sure without a real test,” Lathe cautioned. “But it’s just barely possible we’ve found a shortcut to the end of the mission.”

  Caine snorted gently. “Only if you believe in miracles,” he said. “I gave those up about the same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus.”

  “Nothing wrong with accepting miracles that come your way,” Lathe murmured.

  Something in his tone made Caine look up at him. The comsquare’s face was tight, his eyes focused on infinity. “What’s wrong?” Caine asked.

  “Oh…nothing. Nothing I can do anything about, anyway.” Lathe took a deep breath, released it slowly. “You just reminded me that Project Christmas is being activated about now back on Plinry.”

  “Project Christmas? What’s that?”

  “Ask me another time,” the other advised. “Come on, let’s get back and find the others. And see if we can come up with a safe way to figure out just what the hell this little Christmas present of Torch’s really is.”

  Chapter 36

  IT WAS THREE IN the morning, and Haven was collecting his gear for another sortie outside the equipment shed, when the scout ship from Earth reached Plinry orbit and sent its prearranged radio signal…and from the outer parts of Capstone, Dayle Greene activated Project Christmas.

  Haven paused, listening as three distant explosions came faintly to his ears: one each from the Hub’s eastern, southern, and western gates, Greene’s signal to him and the nine other hidden blackcollars that the climax of the operation had begun! The blasts weren’t particularly powerful, Haven knew, certainly nothing that could actually bring the gates down. But Security under Hammerschmidt’s command was eminently predictable, and within minutes the Hub’s forces would be racing to the wall to prepare for invasion.

  Which would leave the Chimney virtually undefended against the blackcollars arrayed against it. Undefended, that is, except for a cadre of Ryqril guards and four multimegawatt lasers.

  Haven gritted his teeth and eased out onto the roof. The whole thing was coming down a few days ahead of
the anticipated schedule, but his force was really about as ready as it ever would be. The only question still hanging over them was whether or not the lasers had been adequately dealt with…and unfortunately there was only way to find out.

  Security’s reaction began as the blackcollar sidled to the corner of the equipment shed and carefully laid out his equipment. In the near distance cars started up and roared off toward the wall, and as Haven unfolded his sniper’s slingshot he saw a spotter craft southward shoot off to the west. The spotters were a potential problem, he knew, but one they would just have to live with. At least the rows of Corsairs sitting on the ground at the port would be out of the way soon, assuming that the scout pilot up there played his role properly.

  And if he did, Haven knew, odds were good those Corsairs would blast him out of the sky. The blackcollar winced once, then put the thought firmly out of his mind. Some of the blackcollars waiting silently nearby would likely be dead within the hour, too, and dwelling on either possibility was counterproductive.

  He had just set a large, silvery ball into his slingshot’s pouch when the city lit up around him.

  Dropping flat to the roof, he eased a goggled eye around the shed in time to see one of the wall-top lasers swivel upward and fire.

  He grinned tightly. The drone pods the scout pilot was dumping out by the hundreds over the city were perfectly harmless, but the Ryqril had no way of knowing that. The laser swiveled fractionally, fired again; a second later the other three joined in the battle as the cloud of falling pods came within their respective ranges. Aiming, firing, reaiming—all of them operating at blinding electrical speed.

  Or rather, two of them were, the ones at the back corners of the Chimney. But the two nearer ones, the ones that he, O’Hara, and Spadafora had spent over a week pelting with radioactive putty…

  They were slow. Incredibly slow. The kind of slow that could only mean they were being aimed and fired manually.

  In other words, Hawking’s damn crazy trick had actually worked.

  Haven took a deep breath and set his slingshot brace against his arm. Slow against distant specks in the sky would still be fast enough to vaporize blackcollar commandos trying to scale the Chimney wall. One last shot…and if it wasn’t perfect all the rest would have been for nothing.

  He waited with forced patience, watching the laser’s movements for just the right moment, and as the weapon twisted upward and paused momentarily he let the pellet fly. Through his binoculars he saw it hit squarely in the middle of the exposed gimbal mechanism—

  And squeezed his eyes shut as it flared with blue-white light.

  There wouldn’t be any direct damage, of course—the hullmetal gimbal ring was designed to withstand attacks by other high-power lasers, and Haven’s simple thermite bomb would hardly even strain its heat sink. But high-power lasers didn’t splatter molten metal all over the place—molten metal that the laser’s own heat sink would help solidify. And with the weapon on manual control, it was likely to sit in virtually that same position long enough for the metal to congeal.

  It was doubtful that the laser’s operator even realized anything was wrong with the gimbals until the first of the grappling-equipped ropes caught on the wall next to the weapon and he tried to lower its aim. Haven held his breath as the laser strained against the strands of metal bracing it into its upward position…but the delicately balanced mechanism had been designed for speed, not power, and it struggled in vain. A quick glance at the Chimney’s next corner showed the other laser had similarly been rendered helpless.

  And a quarter of the enclave’s perimeter wall was suddenly defenseless.

  Reaching for his tingler, Haven tapped out a quick message. But the ground troops had already figured out that their keyhole was clear and four more ropes snaked their way to the top of the wall. Spadafora, O’Hara: Stay on backup, Haven signaled; and with one last quick assessment of the ground situation he headed back for the stairs at a dead run.

  By the time he reached the dangling ropes and climbed up the Chimney wall, the other blackcollars had gone down the inside, and from the sounds and laser flashes coming from the enclave the battle was in full swing. “Situation?” Haven asked Charles Kwon, the latter stretched out under the disabled laser with a sniper’s slingshot in hand.

  “Most of the resistance is coming from that building over there,” Kwon reported, nodding toward a squat blockhouse near the heavy gate. “Three Ryqril got through the gate, but since they haven’t shown up down below I presume O’Hara and Spadafora have them pinned down. Three of ours are blocking any further sortie attempts; the other three went that way, toward the housing unit.”

  Haven nodded. “Any sign of Corsairs yet?”

  “No, but from where I was it looked like the whole Plinry contingent was heading up to deal with the scout ship and pods before we made our move. If we hurry—”

  He broke off, shifting aim and firing his slingshot toward a shadowy figure that had appeared around a building below. The Ryq jerked with the impact, his laser shot going wild. Before he could recover, a shuriken flickered across the courtyard from one of the half-hidden blackcollars. The alien flopped backward and lay still. “If we hurry,” Kwon continued, reloading his slingshot, “we may get out of here before we have to worry about the Corsairs.”

  “We can hope.” Haven tapped at his tingler. De Vries, Anderson: Situation?

  De Vries; minimal Ryqril warrior presence—all forces effectively pinned down.

  Anderson; have gained access to civilian quarters; objective not in sight.

  “Maybe we should just go for a straight trade,” Kwon suggested. “Their civilians for—”

  De Vries; Objective sighted in warrior blockhouse.

  Haven grunted. “Cute. The roaches probably hustled ’em over there when the scout started shoveling out the pods. You called it, Kwon—got the hailer handy?”

  In answer the other blackcollar pulled out a small box, set it to his lips. “Khray hresakh tlahiin, Ryqril-ahz,” he called, his voice booming from the tiny amplifier. “Razenix ylay-kiy qhadi…”

  Haven listened with half an ear, the rest of his attention on the situation below. There was no guarantee the Ryqril commander would go for this; the other could just as easily decide to try to hold out until the Corsairs could bring firepower to bear from the air. Twisting his head, Haven took a quick look at the gimbal mechanism of the laser towering over him. It was supposed to be incapable of firing into the enclave itself, but with sufficient leverage at the proper places it might be possible to swivel it past its restraints. “Remind them we have two of their defense lasers at our disposal up here,” he instructed Kwon. “We can probably turn it against the enclave directly; we can certainly shoot holes in their returning Corsairs if they choose to be stubborn.”

  Kwon nodded and cut loose with another long stream of jaw-cracking Ryqrili. Haven gnawed at his lip, painfully aware that time was on the aliens’ side. If they didn’t crack quickly, the blackcollars would have not only the Corsairs but also the full brunt of Capstone Security to deal with.

  Abruptly, a faint alien voice drifted out of the blockhouse. “Tlesahae—khreena,” it said…and Haven let out a long sigh.

  “Now,” Kwon cautioned, “let’s see if they really mean it.”

  They apparently did. A moment later two figures emerged from the blockhouse and headed toward the gate. O’Hara, Haven signaled, objective moving our way. Confirm Ryqril still pinned.

  Acknowledged. Warriors still pinned.

  “I’m going out to take fall-back position,” Haven told Kwon, sheathing his slingshot and reaching for one of the ropes. “Pull our people out carefully—I don’t want any last-minute cuteness on the cockroaches’ part.”

  “Got it. Watch for tricks out there, too.”

  But the Ryqril made no attempts to renege on their deal. It was almost, Haven thought, as if the invasion of their supposedly impenetrable enclave had so rattled them that thoughts of resista
nce never entered their minds. Whatever the reason, it reduced by one the number of obstacles they had yet to face. Keeping half his attention on the ground and the other half on the sky, he watched and waited.

  Minutes later the exchange was complete. The two figures were outside the enclave, the failed Ryqril sortie back inside behind the closed gate. Haven hurried forward, knowing that as the blackcollars pulled out the danger of enemy retaliation increased dramatically. The blackcollar assault force was appearing over the wall now, and as the first of them slid to the ground Spadafora and O’Hara drove into sight with the cars they’d appropriated from a nearby parking area. They headed for the two figures too, arriving at the same time as Haven.

  “Who’s that, Taurus Haven?” the older woman said, voice tense and quavering slightly as she peered at Haven’s goggled face. “It’s about time—we were starting to think you’d forgotten all about us.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mrs. Pittman,” Haven chided her gently, ushering the two women toward the waiting cars. “It’s just that some things take time.”

  The tally was impressive, and beyond Haven’s most optimistic expectations: no one dead, only one incapacitated, and only a few other injuries that could be considered major. A definite and almost complete victory, he thought as they wheeled around and drove like banshees away from the Chimney.

  The trick now was to get them all out of the Hub alive.

  There hadn’t been much real discussion on this phase of the operation, mainly because contingency planning didn’t mean a hell of a lot when the assault team was going to have to get through both Hammerschmidt’s forces and whatever the Ryqril had on hand to throw at them. It was going to be strictly a play-by-ear escape, and all of them knew it. Security’s edge was in numbers; the blackcollars’ was in superior training and a firm grip on the initiative.

  It wasn’t until they were halfway to the gate that it suddenly occurred to Haven that the expected Security forces had yet to show up.

  “Where the hell are they?” he muttered to O’Hara, hunched over behind the wheel. “The Ryqril must have alerted them by now that we’re here.”

 

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