“If?” Bakshi cut in mildly.
“Yes, if. Blackcollars are human, too, Comsquare, and I don’t believe all of you can be as noble as you’d like us to think. As I was saying, even if they’re really on our side the extra Security activity they’ve precipitated could be a real problem.”
“That’s a good point,” Jer Dan agreed. “If reports from the Rumelian district are indicative, the quizlers are preparing to turn the whole planet over.”
“What do you suggest?” Tremayne asked.
“Isolate them,” was the prompt reply. “Break off contact with all other cells so that only the Calarand group is at risk.”
“Will that leave us enough manpower?” Bakshi wondered.
“What, with a dozen new blackcollars at your disposal?” Greenstein snorted.
“We can keep the Janus people here,” Tremayne told Bakshi. “That’s no extra risk, since Lathe’s men already know them. Other comments? All right, then. Jer, I want you to start alerting the other cells to stay clear of us. Uri, you’d better get back to Millaire and pass the word to the southern division.”
“Right,” Greenstein nodded. “Also, since Calarand is going silent, you won’t be able to monitor the search for the missing blackcollar, Jensen. I’ll handle that.”
“Thanks.” Tremayne paused. “Speaking of blackcollars, did anyone else notice something unusual during the mock attack earlier?”
There was a moment of silence. “I did,” Bakshi said. “One of them fell into a slightly different combat stance than the others.”
Tremayne nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought, too, The Janus report said they were from Plinry but were operating under Earth auspices. I wonder….”
“You think the odd man’s an Earther?” Dan asked.
“Could be,” Tremayne said. “Which raises the question of how he got out past Earth Security.”
“Maybe there isn’t any,” Bakshi suggested. “Depending on how hard Earth was hit, there may not be much there to guard.”
“Well, there’s no profit in speculation.” Tremayne shrugged. “We’ll give them four or five hours to sleep, but after that I’ll want to nail Comsquare Lathe down as to exactly what his credentials are.”
“And exactly what his business here is,” Bakshi added.
Tremayne nodded grimly. “Especially that.”
CHAPTER 12
“I KNOW I SAW something,” one of the five Security men puffed as the group came through the narrow gap and onto the bluff. “Like a reflection from metal or glass.” He gestured about midway up the rugged, tree-covered slope ahead.
“Keep watching,” another advised him, shifting his snub-nosed laser rifle uncomfortably as he looked around. “And don’t forget he’s had half an hour to move since you first saw it.”
Hidden behind a tree a bare ten meters behind them, Jensen raised his assessment of the group a notch or two. Inexpert though they seemed to be at this sort of outdoor work, they were observant; and their leader, at least, was no fool. He had no way of knowing, after all, that Jensen had hung that spare binocular lens on the tree branch over an hour ago, when he’d first spotted the group moving up the mountain toward him. The intent had been to lure them into dashing gleefully upslope toward his supposed position, hopefully without leaving a guard by this key route off of the bluff. He was beginning to have his doubts whether this was the right kind of group to fall for that trick, though.
“There!” the first man exclaimed, pointing.
“I saw it, too,” one of the others seconded. “About ten degrees to the left of that dead redthorn.”
“Okay, let’s go,” the leader said. “Remember that this guy is dangerous, so if things get hot go ahead and shoot to kill. Dennie, get some other teams moving across into our sector and alert air support. Warn ’em to hang back, though—we don’t want to spook him. Cham, you’ll stay here in case he gets past us. Okay, move out.”
Secure behind his tree, Jensen watched as four of the five disappeared into the brush. The trick had still been worth a try, he decided. Possibly he’d even gained on the exchange: though Security now had a fair idea of his location, Jensen had learned in turn that they were so eager to get him that they were including inexperienced city men in their patrols. Interesting, too, was the fact that they knew he was alone.
The guard, Cham, found some mossy-looking stuff next to a large boulder and sat down stiffly, giving Jensen a good profile view as he rested his snub-nosed rifle butt-down on the ground between his knees. Moving aside the thin wire mike that extended from his helmet, he turned a knob near its connection point all the way over. Leaning his head against the boulder, he closed his eyes.
Jensen eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what he had just done. Had he turned his intrasquad radio down, so he could sleep without the others hearing any snoring, or had he turned the radio up so that they would hear the sound of a weapon if he was ambushed? Probably the latter, Jensen decided—which implied, in turn, a very cautious soldier, since Jensen was supposedly a good distance away. Grimacing, Jensen settled down to watch for an opening.
The minutes ticked by slowly. The guard’s eyes remained closed, but his breathing indicated he wasn’t asleep. Around them the mountainside was silent except for various insectean sounds; nothing but occasional birds crossed the sky above them. But Jensen knew the isolation was largely illusory, and that if the alarm went off the sky and landscape would fill up with remarkable speed. Patience is a virtue, he told himself, and continued watching.
But finally he could wait no longer. The rest of the patrol should be halfway to the hanging lens, and he would need at least a few minutes to get through the gap before they discovered the trick and whistled for reinforcements. To make his own opening was dangerous, but he had no other choice. Picking up a stone, he fitted it into his slingshot and lobbed it into a patch of reedy-looking grass fifteen meters upslope. It landed with a completely satisfactory chunksh.
The guard came alert instantly, swinging his rifle to the direction of the sound with one hand while adjusting the position and volume of his mike with the other. “Cham here,” he said softly. “I heard something in the hill-rushes near me. I’m going to investigate.”
Warily, he stood up, rifle held waist-high and swinging in a gentle arc. Jensen watched as he approached the knee-high grass cautiously, head moving slightly as he scanned the area. At the edge he stood for a moment, then suddenly fired three shots into different parts of the patch. Nothing happened, and after a moment he turned back. “Must’ve been an animal,” Jensen heard him say as he headed back to his boulder. The response wasn’t audible, but Cham smiled tightly. “Sure, but who knows how fast these blackcollars can travel?…You too.”
With one last look around, Cham sat back down on his moss. Pushing his mike to the side again, he reached for the volume control—
And the stone from Jensen’s slingshot caught him full force in the side of his throat.
He slumped, his hand falling limply to his side, and in seconds Jensen was beside him. Carefully removing the helmet, he held it like a sea shell to his ear. Faintly, he could hear grunts and occasional comments from the others as they worked their way up the mountain. There was no indication they’d heard anything unusual; or if they had, that they’d attached any significance to it. Jensen’s gamble had paid off.
Quickly, he searched the dead man, coming up with a field medkit and ration package which he added to his own supplies. The laser rifle was tempting, but its power pack could be sensed at an uncomfortably great distance, especially here on the back side of nowhere. The helmet, unfortunately, was almost as bad, even with the transmitter off, its electronics and battery would show up like a large Scotch tartan. Picking up both the helmet and rifle, he tossed them a few meters into the forest. They would be found, of course, but he might as well cause the enemy as much trouble as was practical.
And then it was down into the gap. Jensen moved as quickly as he could without maki
ng too much noise, driven by a sense of urgency he hadn’t felt earlier. Being chased by Security forces was nothing particularly unexpected—but when they knew both that he was alone and that he was a blackcollar, something was very wrong. Wherever Lathe and his team were, the enemy was on to them.
He was a good fifteen minutes past the bottom of the gap and into heavy brush again when the dull crack of a blast grenade drifted down from upslope. Apparently the Security team had found the booby-trap he’d left for them. Very soon now the whole face of the mountain would be crawling with enemies. From here on, things would start getting sticky.
CHAPTER 13
CAINE WAKENED AT THE soft mention of his name. Eyes closed, he remained motionless for another few seconds. All seemed peaceful; across the room, near the door, Lathe was speaking softly: “…still asleep, and there’s no point in waking him.”
“Sorry,” a new voice said, “but Ral said specifically to bring Caine along.”
Caine opened his eyes. “I’m awake, Lathe,” he said softly, trying not to wake anyone else. “What is it?”
Both Lathe and the other speaker—it was Jeremiah Dan—looked over at him; Lathe, he noted, with mild annoyance. “Ral Tremayne wants you and Lathe to meet with our tactical group,” Dan explained.
“It’s not necessary that you go,” Lathe interjected. “I can handle any tactical discussions.”
The first step toward freezing him out? Getting to his feet, Caine threaded his way through the rows of cots the Radix people had set up for them. “No problem. Sounds interesting, actually.”
“All right.” Lathe shifted his gaze from Caine and nodded an invitation across the room. Haven and Novak, seated on opposite sides of a chessboard, stood up and came forward. “I’d like you there, too,” Lathe told them. “If we wind up assaulting this Henslowe Prison you’ll each be leading a squad.”
Dan’s eyes widened. “Comsquare, uh…we really don’t have the manpower for anything that big.”
“Why not? Tremayne said you had half a million people. You could storm the place with rocks with numbers like that.”
“But then we wouldn’t have half a million people anymore, would we?” Dan said icily. Turning on his heel, he strode out into the hall.
Caine felt an acute sense of embarrassment as he and the three blackcollars followed. Hoping to smooth relations, he caught up with Dan and gestured at the long, high-ceilinged hallway. “Just what is this place. Mr. Dan?” he asked. “It doesn’t look like any building I’ve ever seen.”
Some of the stiffness went out of Dan’s back. “It was once a government building, back about sixty years ago, housing the Mining Department. When a new place was built for them this one was sold and made into private offices. Since then the takeover parts have been further converted into apartments. We own the whole building through various business and private fronts.”
Dan took them to the same small boardroom they’d been in earlier. This time, though, the central table was considerably more crowded: along with Tremayne and Bakshi were six other men and two women. For Caine, the most unexpected—and welcome—sight were the four men seated next to Bakshi. They looked young, tough, and alert…and they wore black turtlenecks and dragonhead rings.
Tremayne was sitting at the head of the table this time, with Bakshi at his right. Lathe took the chair at the other end of the table; Caine took the empty seat next to him.
“I’m sorry,” Tremayne said, glancing at Novak and Haven as Dan slid into the last chair, “I wasn’t expecting anyone else. I’ll send for two more chairs.”
“No need,” Lathe told him. “They can stand.”
“It’s not necessary—”
“I said they can stand.”
A faint shuffle of people shifting in their seats went around the table, and Caine saw one or two brief frowns. Tremayne’s lip twitched, but he nodded. “As you wish. Let me introduce our tactical group.” He gestured to the left side of the table. “Next to Jer is Salli Quinlan, in charge of military intelligence; Miles Cameron, intelligence chief; and Stuart York, supply chief. On my right, Comsquare Bakshi is overall tactician and field operations chief; Commandos McKitterick, Valentine, Fuess, and Couturie lead our raiding parties; Faye Picciano is another tactician.”
There were nods all around. “I’m looking forward to hearing about conditions on Plinry from you,” Faye said, shifting her gaze between Lathe and Caine. Looking across the table at her, Caine decided she was much closer to his mental image of the female Resistance fighter than Lianna Rhodes had been—more attractive, but still with the necessary toughness hovering behind her eyes. And unlike the matronly Salli Quinlan, she wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“Certainly,” Lathe said. “But later. Right now conditions on Argent are more important.” He looked down the table at the other woman. “Mrs. Quinlan, is there any way to estimate how long the current Ryqril campaign will last?”
“Just a minute, Comsquare,” Tremayne cut in before Salli could speak. “Before we go any further we’d like to know exactly what your mission here is.”
“As I explained before, that’s confidential,” Lathe said. “You’ll be told what you need when you need it; not before. It’s safer for everyone that way.”
“And what gives you the right to make that decision?” Valentine, one of the blackcollars, objected. “This is our world, not yours.”
“Really?” Lathe said dryly. “I thought the Ryqril held title to Argent at the moment.”
Valentine scowled. “Look, Lathe, the occupation stopped being funny about thirty years ago.”
“Sorry. But you, of all people, shouldn’t be questioning me. As long as you call yourself a blackcollar, this—” he held up his red-eyed dragonhead ring—“gives me all the authority I need.”
“Unless we’re under command already,” Fuess, a big blond man with sunken cheeks, put in. “And we are.”
Lathe stared coolly at him for a second, then turned to Bakshi. “Comsquare, do you accept my authority?”
“To give non-contradicting orders, yes,” Bakshi replied. “But the line of command here is anything but clear. For instance, you claimed to have authority from General Kratochvil of Earth. Did you swing by there on your way from Plinry, or what?”
Lathe shook his head. “Kratochvil’s message was brought by one of his agents—Caine here. As there was no one left on Plinry of comparable rank to either endorse or reject the orders, we accepted them on Caine’s word.”
Tremayne nodded slowly. “We wondered about Caine….But what about General Lepkowski? He was supposed to be on Plinry.”
“Lepkowski stopped endorsing orders thirty-five years ago,” Lathe said grimly. “He died in the Ryqril Groundfire attack.”
“I see.” For a long moment Tremayne sat silently, frowning as his eyes searched Lathe’s face. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll trust you—for now. But you’re to confer with Comsquare Bakshi or myself before doing anything that may put my people in danger.” He nodded to Salli Quinlan. “All right, Salli; go ahead.”
Glancing once at Lathe, she dropped her eyes to the papers in front of her. “As near as we can tell, the Ryqril are committing a lot of forces to this assault. We’ve tracked four Elephant-class troop carriers and three Corsair wings through the fueling bases in the past week, and we’re pretty sure two wings normally based here have also gone. I’d guess at least fifty days before the Star Force vets are let out.”
Lathe shook his head. “That’s too long. Bakshi, what size force can you field?”
“Not enough to take Henslowe by storm, if that’s what you’re getting at. About forty men, plus your own blackcollars.”
“Forty men? What happened to your half-million rabid patriots?”
Tremayne kept his temper. “We’ve isolated the Calarand group from the rest of Radix, in case something goes wrong.”
“Great. What do we do if we need more—take out ads?”
“We’re keeping the Janus g
roup here for the duration. That’s another ten people available in emergencies.”
“Somehow, I get the impression you don’t really trust us,” Haven, spoke up from somewhere behind Caine. “We really aren’t here to betray you, you know.”
“But you might do just that—accidentally, of course,” Miles Cameron said. “Argent Security is very sharp, and some of their techniques are probably different from what you’re used to. We can’t risk everything for some scheme we know nothing about.”
“That happens all the time in a war,” Lathe pointed out. “That’s why you have a general staff and chain of command instead of deciding things at a mass meeting of the troops.”
“You can’t expect military precision from us, Comsquare,” Faye spoke up as Cameron’s face darkened. “The war was a long time ago, and most of us weren’t very deep in the military system.”
Lathe gave her an appraising look. “Were you?”
She shrugged modestly. “A bit. I was on the tactical staff of General Cordwainer’s Sector Command.”
“I’m impressed. Also surprised the Ryqril let you run around loose.”
“Actually, they don’t know about me,” she admitted. “The records got destroyed—these things happen.”
Lathe smiled and looked back at Bakshi. “Miss Picciano’s point is well taken. I withdraw any and all unkind remarks. Perhaps an assault won’t be necessary. Do you have any data on the prison itself?”
“Quite a lot,” Tremayne said, sounding relieved. “Miles?”
Cameron reached down to a case by his chair and extracted a thick file. Opening it, he chose several papers and photos and slid them across the table to Lathe. “Henslowe Prison,” he announced.
Caine craned his neck to see. The prison was an unimaginative fifteen-story rectangle made of a stony-looking material and sitting squarely in the center of an otherwise empty block. Narrow windows lined the walls from the third floor to the thirteenth, with larger windows on the top two floors. Armed guards patrolled the four-meter-high perimeter mesh fence, and the massive gate was flanked by guardhouses. A street map showed the prison to be about a hundred meters inside the wall marking the edge of the Strip. “Where are the veterans being held?” Caine asked.