Blackcollar: The Judas Solution

by Timothy Zahn

  "What suspicions?" Reger scoffed. "What could we possibly have done to you?"

  Poirot felt a flicker of contempt. Was he going to have to do all their thinking for them? "Well, you did mention Whiplash in his presence," he reminded them. "He'll certainly be trying to chase down that reference."

  "Which just means we'll need a good excuse to let them go," Skyler said. "These are the pieces we have.

  Let's start putting them together."

  * * *

  Flynn was munching quietly on a ration bar, wondering how much more daylight was left, when he heard the sound of a large animal coming through the underbrush.

  He looked over at Jensen. The blackcollar was asleep, his head pillowed on his pack, his breathing shallow but steady. Setting his ration bar on the ground, Flynn slid his nunchaku from its sheath. The sound came again, this time loud enough for Flynn to tag its direction as coming from due north. Getting up into a crouch, careful not to brush the low branches sagging down above him, he worked his way around to the south side of the tree and eased his way out from beneath the branches.

  The sky had clouded over since they'd gone to ground that morning, with furrows of gray now forming a backdrop to the mountain peaks. Nunchaku in hand, he moved toward a stubby bush a few meters away, wincing at the soft crunching sounds he made in the leaves as he walked. So far the approaching animal hadn't appeared, but from the increasingly loud swishing sounds it could be anytime now. Flynn made it to his target bush and crouched down, gripping his nunchaku tightly, hoping like hell it wasn't the bear back for a rematch. Through the branches of his cover he caught a glimpse of a large, dark shape approaching—

  And to his amazement, the biggest brown Labrador retriever he'd ever seen ambled into view.

  He exhaled silently, his first instinctive relief that it wasn't the bear quickly giving way to the more sobering reality that this might actually be worse. The dog, he could see now, was wearing a collar of some sort; and dog plus collar equaled owner. Here, a few klicks from a Ryqril base, dog plus owner might very well equal Security tracker.

  The Lab was wandering toward the tree where Jensen lay hidden, his tail wagging back and forth as he snuffled at bushes and exposed tree roots. Behind him, Flynn could hear a couple of sets of footsteps approaching. Shifting his nunchaku to his left hand, he pulled out a throwing knife and settled his mind into combat stance. Jensen, it was whispered among the trainees, had once undergone a full-blown Security interrogation. He wasn't going to have to go through that again, not if Flynn could help it.

  Once again, the expectation proved worse than the reality. The two men who strode into view were tall and bearded, wearing haphazard and threadbare outfits that a proper Security man wouldn't be caught dead in. The younger of the two was probably no more than a year or two older than Flynn's own twentythree, while the older was well into his fifties, with the leathery skin that came of a lifetime outdoors.

  There was also a distinct family resemblance, he noticed, particularly around the mouth and eyes.

  The resemblance between the long-barreled flechette rifles they carried propped over their shoulders was even more pronounced.

  Flynn sank a little lower behind his bush, indecision twisting through him. On the one hand, these could be precisely the sort of people he'd planned to go looking for, locals who could point him to the doctor Jensen needed so badly. But on the other hand, through his long hours of forced idleness he'd reluctantly concluded that Jensen's analysis of the possibilities had probably been more accurate than his own.

  Finding a competent doctor out here in the wilderness might be well-nigh impossible.

  And even if they did find one, there would be no way of knowing where his loyalties lay. Not until it was too late.

  No, he decided suddenly. Best to just let the two rabbit hunters pass by and hope Jensen's injuries weren't as bad as they'd seemed this morning.

  And then, to his dismay, the Lab stopped in his tracks, turned his massive head, and bounded straight toward the tree where Jensen was hidden.

  There was no time for Flynn to think it through. An instant later he was on his feet, his right arm cocked over his shoulder with the knife poised to throw. "Hold it," he snapped.

  The younger man jerked in surprise at Flynn's sudden appearance, his rifle bouncing off his shoulder as he swung the weapon down toward firing position. But the older man was quicker. His left hand snaked out to catch the barrel as it fell, his own rifle staying firmly against his shoulder. "Easy, son," he called calmly toward Flynn. "We ain't gonna hurt you."

  "That's good to know," Flynn said, trying to watch the younger man and the dog at the same time. The animal had turned at Flynn's warning and now seemed to be torn between the idea of checking out the newcomer or continuing on to the tree.

  The older man apparently misinterpreted Flynn's split attention. "You ain't worried about Joe Pup, here, are ya?" he asked, gesturing toward the dog. "He ain't gonna hurt you none, neither." He gave a short whistle. "C'mere, Joe Pup. Heel."

  Obediently, the Lab loped over and came to a halt at his side, panting cheerfully. "So who are you, anyway?" the older man went on. "Don't hardly think I seen you around here afore."

  "No, I'm just passing through," Flynn said.

  "Goin' anyplace special?"

  Flynn braced himself. This was going to be uncomfortably risky, he knew. But as Lathe had often said, when data was inadequate instincts were all anyone had, and his instincts told him these men were no friends of the Ryqril or their loyalty-conditioned collaborators. "I was hoping to find a doctor, actually," he said, watching them closely.

  "Yeah?" the younger man said suspiciously. "You look pert' healthy t' me. Got some disease that don't show?"

  "I've got a sick friend," Flynn said. "But you were obviously on your way somewhere. If you can point me in the direction of a doctor, I'd appreciate it. If not, I'll let you be on your way."

  "Right decent of you," the older man said dryly. "But this here's our home, not yours. You're the one who gets to move on if someone's gotta get goin'."

  Abruptly, his eyes hardened. "Unless you want to come clean and tell us who you really are," he warned.

  "And I mean right now." And on the last word, he let go his grip on the younger man's rifle.

  And before Flynn could react, the barrel finished its downward swing to land with a slap in the younger man's left hand.

  Pointed directly at Flynn's face.

  Flynn dropped into a crouch, twisting at his knees and waist as he fell, using the momentum of his corkscrew spin for extra power as he whipped the knife around and threw it at the gunman. At the last instant he gave the weapon just enough extra torque for an additional half turn, and as he completed his spin he saw it slam hilt first against the younger man's forehead. The other's gun swung wildly off target as he staggered a couple of steps back, and Flynn shifted his attention to the other man.

  He was still standing motionless, apparently frozen in place by Flynn's unexpected counterattack, his own gun still propped against his shoulder. Leaping back to his feet, Flynn shifted his nunchaku to his right hand and charged, hoping he could cover the distance before either man recovered enough for another attack.

  But he was too late. The younger man was tougher than he looked; and even as the Lab gave out a startled yip and laid his ears back he got his gun back under control. Once again the weapon swung to point at Flynn.

  And with the flat crack of stone on metal, the gun leapt sideways out of his hands.

  "That'll do, gentlemen," a croaking voice came seemingly from nowhere. Even knowing who it was, it still took Flynn a second to recognize the voice as Jensen's. There was a swish of branches, and Jensen appeared from beneath the tree, his slingshot cocked and ready. "Put the gun on the ground," he continued, pointing the weapon at the older man, whose rifle was still propped against his shoulder.

  "Then both of you get going."

  "That won't be necessary," the older ma
n said calmly, lowering his gun to the ground. "My apologies for the test, but we had to be sure."

  "Sure about what?" Flynn demanded. "That we weren't easy targets?"

  The older man inclined his head toward Jensen. "That you were blackcollars."

  "Toby was right," the younger man said, massaging his forehead where Flynn's knife had caught him.

  "You must have come in on last night's shuttle glide path. Security's spotters have been buzzing over that area all day."

  Flynn glanced over his shoulder, but the trees blocked his view of that part of the sky. "Toby keeps track of such things, does he?"

  "He's got a fair amount of time on his hands," the older man said dryly. "He's also got a cabin a couple hundred meters upslope of our town where he gets a good view of pretty much everything that goes on."

  "And whose side is Toby on?" Jensen asked.

  The older man shrugged. "All he needed to do was call Security and suggest they might be looking too far east," he pointed out. "But he asked us to come look for you instead." He lifted his eyebrows. "And you, my friend, are in considerable pain. What can we do to help?"

  "I don't know," Jensen said. "What can you do to help?"

  "Anything I can." To Flynn's surprise, the older man straightened up into military attention. "John Adamson, former sergeant-medic with the TDE Army of Western America."

  For a moment, Jensen didn't speak. Then, slowly, he released the tension on his slingshot pouch and lowered the weapon. "I may have a cracked rib or two," he said.

  "And you made it this far?" Adamson asked as he crossed over to Jensen and carefully opened his coat and shirt.

  "Actually, it only happened on the far side of that ridge," Jensen said. "We ran into a bear."

  "You fought a bear?" the younger man said, his eyes widening.

  "Only a little one," Jensen said, wincing as Adamson's fingers probed gently at his side.

  "Yeah, right," the younger man said. "Five to one it was Bessie."

  "You name the animals around here?" Flynn asked.

  "Just certain ones," Adamson said. "Bessie's sort of a fixture in these parts. By the way, this is my son, Vernon."

  "Call me Trapper," the younger Adamson said. "Okay if I get the rifles?"

  "Go ahead," Jensen told him. "How bad is it?"

  "Bad enough," Adamson said. "I'll need to get you to my house and get this—what's it called? flexarmor?

  —get this flexarmor off you before I'll know for sure."

  "We going to want a stretcher, Dad?" Trapper asked as he retrieved the two rifles.

  "Probably," Adamson said, looking at Flynn. "You've got the longest coat. Mind if we borrow it?"

  "Sure," Flynn said, unfastening his coat as he walked toward them.

  "His name's Flynn, by the way," Jensen said. "How far are we going?"

  "A kilometer or so," Adamson said. "Not too far." His lips compressed briefly as he took Flynn's coat and started fastening it closed again. "The trick's going to be sneaking you in past the rest of the townspeople."

  "And the sensor pylon," Trapper added.

  "The what?" Flynn demanded, his hand involuntarily squeezing his nunchaku.

  "Relax—it's mainly an aircraft spotter," Adamson assured him. "Fully automated, put there to make sure nothing sneaks up on their homestead out at Idaho Springs. Should be easy enough to keep you out of its view."

  "Our job as a town is to keep it maintained," Trapper explained. "That was the price thirty years ago for Security to let us stay out here instead of herding us back to Denver like they did with the people in a lot of the other small towns."

  "With all of you being properly loyalty-conditioned, of course?" Flynn asked.

  "Oddly enough, no," Adamson said, kneeling down and spreading Flynn's coat flat on the ground, flipping over the sleeves to point above the collar. "You have to remember that this was right after the Ryqril occupation began, when they were scrambling to loyalty-condition every possible threat.

  Someone apparently decided a hundred or so people out in the middle of nowhere weren't worth the effort."

  "Especially since the pylon was mostly automated anyway," Trapper added, handing his father one of the rifles.

  "Doesn't mean we're all rabidly anti-Ryqril, of course," Adamson said, sliding the rifle up the hem of the coat and pulling the barrel up into the right-hand sleeve. "Actually, most people are in a kind of live/let live mode these days." He slid the other rifle up the other side, poking it through the left-hand sleeve.

  "But there are still some of us left who haven't forgotten," he added, straightening up and looking at Jensen. "Your carriage awaits you, Commando. You need a hand getting down?"

  "I can make it," Jensen said. "Shouldn't we wait until nightfall, though?"

  "It'll be tricky enough when we can see where we're going," Adamson said. "Don't worry, we'll hear anything that's coming long before it can see or hear us."

  Jensen gave him a rather wan smile. "Because this here's your home, and you know pert' much what you're all doin'?"

  "Something like that," Adamson said, smiling back. "Don't worry, no one in Shelter Valley actually talks that way. We just bring it out for the tourists."

  "I'm sure you get so many," Jensen said. "Flynn, go get the packs, will you?"

  By the time Flynn emerged Jensen had made it to the ground and was lying on his back on the coat.

  "Afraid I don't have as much strength and stamina as I used to," Adamson confessed, gesturing Flynn toward the rifle stocks sticking out of the coat by Jensen's feet. "But I can carry the packs."

  "We've got them," Trapper said, taking one of the packs from Flynn and putting it on as he moved to the front of the makeshift stretcher. "Dad, can you help Jensen with his legs?"

  "Sure," Adamson said, stepping over and getting a grip on Jensen's ankles.

  "Shouldn't we unload the guns?" Flynn asked as that thought suddenly struck him.

  "They aren't loaded," Adamson assured him. "We didn't want a misfire or accident hurting anyone."

  "We've got a few rounds in our pockets if we need them," Trapper said, squatting down and getting a grip on the coat sleeves and the rifle barrels inside them. "Say when."

  A moment later he and Flynn had the makeshift stretcher up, with Jensen's back and head lying on the coat and his legs angled up to rest on Trapper's shoulders. "I know this is going to sound ridiculous,"

  Adamson said, stepping in front of his son, "but try not to bounce him more than necessary."

  "Don't worry," Flynn said, cocking an eyebrow down at Jensen. "It'll be as smooth as a drop pod entry."

  "Terrific," Jensen said, closing his eyes melodramatically. "I'm dead."

  "Not on my watch, you aren't," Adamson said firmly. He gave a short whistle, and the big Lab bounded back into view from behind a stand of trees, clearly eager to get moving. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER 10

  They dropped Poirot off in a quiet part of town five blocks from the main Athena entrance, and by the time he got the blindfold off their car had disappeared around a corner.

  They'd left him his hailer, and for a minute he considered calling an autocab to take him the rest of the way. But it was a nice night, and he had a lot to think about. Squaring his shoulders, he got his bearings and headed off at a brisk walk.

  He quickly regretted the decision. Quiet though the area might have been, there were still plenty of people around, none of whom had apparently ever seen a Security general before. Everyone seemed to find it necessary to stop and stare, many of them turning around and continuing their examination even after he'd passed. Some of those stares, he noted uncomfortably, had a degree of hostility to them.

  But no one tried to stop him, or even talk to him, and fifteen minutes after leaving the car he turned at last into the wide, well-lit thoroughfare that led to the high fence and heavy gate of the Athena government center.

  The guards at the gatehouse saw him coming, of course, and they certainly recognize
d him. But to his irritation, none of them made any move to leave their bunker to come out and meet him. By the time he came to a halt in front of the gatehouse's thick-glassed window, he was ready to break all four of them back to private.

  "General Poirot," he identified himself tartly, as if there could be any doubt. "Open up."

  No one made a move toward the gate control. "Welcome back, General," the duty lieutenant said, his voice strangely flat as it came through the speaker grill below the window. "Colonel Bailey's been extremely concerned about you."

  "Then Colonel Bailey will want to see me, won't he?" Poirot growled.

  "Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, still not moving. "Your escort's on its way."

  His escort? "I don't need an escort, Lieutenant," he said, letting his tone drop into official warning territory. "Just open the damn gate."

  The other looked down at the bank of monitors beneath the window and nodded. "As you wish, sir," he said. Reaching down, he twisted the release and the gate swung open. Giving him one final glare, Poirot left the window and strode through the gateway.

  And stopped short. Lined up facing him were three cars and a group of eight Security men, some still in the process of getting out of the vehicles. "What's all this?" he demanded.

  "We have orders to take you to headquarters, General," the sergeant in charge said, his voice as stiff as the duty lieutenant's had been. "If you'll come this way, please?"

  "Absolutely," Poirot said between clenched teeth. Bailey, he promised himself darkly, was going to hurt for this.

  He stomped over and got into the nearest vehicle's rear seat. A moment later he had to move quickly to the center as two of the others climbed in with him, one on either side. Two more got into the front, the rest sorting themselves out between the remaining two cars, and a minute later all three vehicles were headed inward through Athena's streets. The other two cars, Poirot noted, had taken up positions in front and behind him, standard configuration for transporting VIPs. At least Bailey—or the sergeant—had gotten that part right.

  A few minutes later they reached the Security building. To Poirot's continued annoyance, though, they bypassed the main entrance and took him instead in through the tunnel. There, his protests ignored, he was put through the full battery of scans as the techs checked him for weapons, explosives, and poisons.