The Blackcollar (19 page)

It hit just above the ankle, with the result Jensen had hoped for. Knocked off balance, the soldier fell heavily into his companion's side, tumbling them both to the floor as their shots went wild. Long before they could untangle themselves Jensen was on them,
nunchaku
swinging with the savage intensity of someone who has squeezed one last chance from a hostile universe.

He was trembling with reaction when he finally straightened up, so drained emotionally that the voice bursting abruptly from the speaker didn't even make him jump. "Base Five, this is Spotter Sixteen. Are you all right there?"

For a moment Jensen hesitated. Then, picking up one of the laser rifles, he stepped over to the communications equipment, a vague plan forming in his mind. The controls didn't seem complicated; tentatively, he touched a button. "Spotter Sixteen, this is Base Five," he gasped. "We're under attack!"

"By the blackcollar?" the voice asked, suddenly crisp.

"Oh, God, I don't know," Jensen said, putting a frightened whine into his voice. "They're shooting at us from upslope. We're mostly pinned down, and the captain's been hit—"

"Get ahold of yourself!" the other snapped. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes. How many snipers are there? There's only supposed to be one man out there."

"Maybe he just moves around a lot—I don't know." Jensen fired twice near the antenna, knowing the other's radio would pick up a slight but distinctive crackle. "God, they're firing in here again," he groaned. "Look, sir, I'm going to try and get the captain out—he's hit bad."

"Nega—" The voice cut off as Jensen sent two shots into the equipment. With luck, he thought as he ran for the tent entrance, they would assume the camp radio had been shot out before he heard their order.

Nothing was visible overhead when he emerged, but that would soon change, and Jensen needed to give the approaching patrol boats at least a little of what they would expect to see. Flipping his rifle to full power, he began sending shots into the slopes above the camp as he retrieved his pack and ran to one of the open-roofed vehicles parked by the dirt road. They were standard military-looking models, little changed from those he'd used in the war. Climbing in, he checked the power gauge and drove back into camp, where he picked one of the dead men at random and loaded him aboard. The patrol boat would expect to see him bravely rescuing his wounded captain and he couldn't disappoint them. Turning onto the dirt road, he headed downhill.

He wasn't any too soon. He was only two minutes out of the camp when, sweeping in from the west like Phaëthon's chariot, a patrol boat thundered by overhead. Hunching over the steering wheel, Jensen concentrated on his driving. It would be at least a while, he hoped, before the forces that were gathering grew tired of trying to draw fire from the hills and finally landed. When they discovered how the men at the base had died... well, Jensen planned to be far from his stolen vehicle before it was found.

But whether they knew it or not, Security had won this round. Jensen had hoped to be several hours on his way before anyone even knew he'd been in camp. Now, the alarm would be out within a fraction of that time.

There was really only one alternative that offered any hope of success. They would expect him to head east, for the flatlands and a populace he could hope to vanish into—and therefore he had to make the less obvious move back into the mountains. It seemed crazy, but with a week's worth of new rations and most of the enemy's activity to the east it was a gamble worth taking. If he could work his way far enough south, he had a chance of slipping out of the net completely unnoticed. At that point....

He frowned. His original plan had been to link up with Argent's underground as soon as possible, but that might turn out to be no better than walking into Security HQ. It was painfully clear that the organization leaked information like a string bag—the searchers here knew far too much about him. Unless one of the others had been captured and made to talk... but they wouldn't be so interested in taking him alive if they already knew about Caine's starships. No, Lathe must be playing it cautious in an unsafe position—and in that case Jensen's best plan might simply be to go to ground for the duration. It was a thought worth serious consideration.

From far behind came the faint multiple-
crack
of a strafe-charge attack. Grimacing, Jensen increased his speed slightly. Very soon now it would be time to abandon the car.

The hallway was deserted as Lathe strode along it; which was just as well, since he wasn't feeling much like company. His lust was starting to fade now, but Faye Picciano's face hovered like a succubus before his eyes and he could still smell her perfume. He wanted to go back to her; wanted her more than he cared to admit. And surely he could handle it.... Gritting his teeth, he kept walking.

He was still feeling irritable when he reached the blackcollar room, throwing the door open suddenly enough to make Skyler, Novak, and Mordecai reach reflexively for their weapons. Lathe didn't like startling his men like that—even blackcollar combat reflexes could be blunted—but at least they'd know now to leave him alone for a while.

Caine, unfortunately, either missed the hint or simply ignored it. He'd been pacing near the door when Lathe entered, and almost before it was closed he'd planted himself in the comsquare's path. "Lathe, we need to talk."

"Later," Lathe growled, moving to go around him.

Caine stuck out an arm. "No,
now,"
he snapped. "I've had too much 'later' already."

Clenching his teeth firmly, Lathe held onto the shards of his temper. Caine was the last person on Argent he could afford to blow up at. "All right. What's on your mind?"

"Finishing up our mission before the government finds us." Caine waved his arm, the gesture encompassing the other blackcollars as well as the room around them. "We've been cooped up in this place for six straight days now—I've hardly even been outside this
room
in that time. About all you've done is move everybody except us out of the building and hold lots of meetings. When's something going to happen?"

"You know the military," Skyler spoke up from the table where he'd been reading a tape. "Double-time it, then wait at parade rest."

"Don't give me that. You guys move fast enough when you want to—what's left of Plinry could attest to that."

"This isn't Plinry," Lathe reminded him. "We're in unknown territory, forced to rely on an organization that's probably riddled with collie spies. We need to get as much information as possible before we move."

"Is
that
why you've been monopolizing Faye Picciano lately," Caine snorted. "I should have known it was business."

For some reason Caine's words suddenly put things in perspective; and rather than boil over, Lathe's anger drained away. "It was, on both sides—and her business is also information. Be thankful I deflected her away from you—you wouldn't have lasted an hour once she got started."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the complete temptress routine, all the way down to the pheromone-based perfume she was wearing. And she's damn good at it, too."

Caine suddenly looked wary, as the source of Lathe's mood must have dawned on him. "Did she—ah—?"

"No, she didn't succeed," the comsquare said. "The sexual ploy's the oldest in the book, but no less potent for all that. I know better than to risk emotional entanglement on a mission; I'm not sure you do. Chances are you'd be in bed with her right now, telling her anything she wanted to know."

"Ridiculous," Caine said... but he didn't sound entirely sure of himself. "You think she's a government spy?"

"Not necessarily." Lathe stepped past Caine and sat down across from Skyler. "Whichever side she's on she'd want to pump us for all she could. Tacticians
always
want all the information they can get."

"Is that why you sent the others away from here?" Caine asked, coming over to stand beside the table. "So she couldn't get to them?"

"She or other potential spies. Also, it's a good general policy not to load all your torpedoes into the same tube. Actually,
you're
the only one we absolutely have to keep the collies from getting hold of."

"Hence the bodyguards?"

"We just like your company," Novak assured him from his bunk.

Caine's response was a snort.

"But you've got a point," Lathe said, thinking quickly. The timing was critical here.... "If we sit around too long the collies may try something. Okay. Tomorrow, Mordecai and I will go take a close-up look at Henslowe Prison, try to find the best approach for getting the vets out."

Across the room Mordecai raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. Caine said. "Well, that's something. I'll come, too."

Lathe shook his head. "Sorry. We're keeping you out of collie reach, remember? You'll stay here where it's safe."

Caine's lip twisted, but something in Lathe's face must have warned him not to argue the point. Turning on his heel, he strode over to the window and stared out.

The impatience of youth, Lathe thought, stroking his dragonhead ring as he looked at Caine's stiff back. A wave of weariness swept abruptly over him. Why was he going through all this torture again, especially for a mission with such a poor chance of success? Sighing, he turned his eyes away from Caine.

Skyler was still sitting across the table from him. "You all right?" he asked softly.

Lathe managed a lopsided smile. "Sure."

"He'll learn. You serious about tomorrow?"

"Yes. Have you talked to Vale lately?"

"Novak saw him this morning. O'Hara and Haven seem to be coming along okay. Still pretty weak, though—high-dose Idunine treatment's no fun."

"None of us are in this for the fun of it," Lathe said dryly. "When will they be able to fight?"

"Vale guessed a couple of days—maybe three or four before they're back to full strength."

"Okay." Lathe glanced at his watch. "The tactical group's meeting in an hour; I'll tell them about the trip then. Not about your part, of course."

Skyler rubbed his fingertips thoughtfully on the tabletop. "You have to tell them anything at all? If there's a collie spy in the group, you'll be inviting a trap."

"Possibly. But if we
don't
say anything they'll never trust us again—Tremayne already thinks we ask too much on blind faith. Besides, we might prove this way whether or not there is a spy in the group."

"Um. Just you and Mordecai going, then?"

"Plus one of the Argentians, probably—I expect Tremayne will insist on that. Our loyal guide Fuess would be a good choice. If it comes to a fight an extra blackcollar would be handy to have around." Lathe cocked his head slightly to one side. "I see an objection in there that still hasn't been answered."

Skyler nodded fractionally in Caine's direction. "You're going to leave him alone with Novak? If
I
wanted to capture him alive, that's when I'd pull
my
raid."

Lathe was silent a long moment. "You think Security's that desperate yet? If they miss they risk driving us out of range of their spies."

"Granted. But I don't think we should count on the opposition having good sense."

"In that case maybe we'd better send him over to stay with Hawking, Kwon, and Spadafora."

"Or else take him with you in the morning. Seriously. They'll be trying to keep you alive anyway, and if they realize who they've got they'll be doubly anxious to do so. It'll make your odds that much better."

"True. Means they'll be using those Paralyte-IX darts. Have we got a supply of the antidote?"

"Yes—and Vale's already prepared the hypos you're going to ask for next."

Lathe grinned. "I wonder sometimes why I bother to give orders.... All right, I'll think about taking Caine in tomorrow. But don't mention that to him or anyone else yet."

"Right." Skyler pushed back his chair. "I'd better start organizing my equipment."

He walked over to Novak, conferred for a few seconds, and then went to the corner where the blackcollar's equipment was piled. Lathe watched him thoughtfully, noting the bounce in the big man's step and the sure, quick movements of his hands. Skyler was happy—happier, in fact, than Lathe had seen him since the end of the war.

Smiling to himself, the comsquare glanced at Caine's still-angry back. Yes, it was worth it. For a long time the blackcollars had been dying in degrees from the inside out as their hope of doing something meaningful faded with the years. But no matter what happened now, they would at least have had the chance to live as blackcollars again, the chance for one last shot at the collies and their Ryqril overlords. And if the price was death on a foreign world... well, they'd been prepared for that forty years ago, on Plinry. It wouldn't be harder now.

The thought of death brought a new frown to Lathe's face, and his eyes defocused to stare past Caine at the cloudless sky.

Where
was
Jensen, anyway?

The Radix garage was located at the end of another of the long underground tunnels Caine had come to expect of the Argentian resistance. Sweating under three layers of flexarmor and local clothing, he walked through the narrow passageway between Lathe and Mordecai, wondering why the comsquare was allowing him to come along. It
was
what he'd wanted, of course, but after that business about how valuable he was, he hadn't expected Lathe to back down so easily.

The "garage"—a large abandoned store—was heavily boarded up, but after the gloom of the tunnel the bits of morning sunlight filtering in gave adequate light for them to thread their way through the parked vehicles to the exit doors where their own waited. Three figures also waited there: Fuess, Tremayne, and Bakshi.

"Good morning, Tremayne; Comsquare," Lathe said as they approached. "I wasn't expecting to see you two here."

"Morning," Tremayne nodded. "We wanted to make sure you had the latest information on quizler movements."

"I picked it up from Mrs. Quinlan's people on the way down," Mordecai told him. "Seems quiet out there."