Blackcollar

  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?

  CHAPTER 16

  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.”

  “Yeah, well, take it easy anyway,” Bakshi warned, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he shifted his gaze between Caine and the others. “Are all three of you going?”

  “All four, if you count Fuess,” Lathe said, looking at the latter. “Everything ready?”

  The tall blond nodded. “All set, Comsquare.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” He nodded at Tremayne and Bakshi. “See you later.”

  The vehicle was a dented van similar to the one Caine had ridden in back on Plinry. This time, though, he was obliged to sit on the floor in the storage area as Fuess and Lathe took the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Mordecai, sitting down against the side opposite Caine, wedged himself between the wheel well and one of the vertical wraparound support struts. Caine tried that position on his own side, found it comfortable.

  The doors opened and the van lurched out into the street. Three turns later, they entered the mainstream of Calarand traffic.

  It didn’t take much longer for Caine to become completely lost. Seated as low as he was, he could see virtually nothing through either the front windshield or the van’s small rear windows, and his efforts to correlate the van’s turns with the maps he’d memorized proved useless. The quiet conversation between Fuess and Lathe was less than useful, too. “That’s the Security Headquarters—that white building with the dish antennas all over the roof.”

  “For just Calarand or all of Argent?”

  “For everything.” Long pause; one turn. “This is Victory Avenue—renamed after the war, of course. It runs through one of the western entrances into the Strip and then into the government center. We’ll have to get off before then—we haven’t yet figured out how to make passable quizler IDs.”

  “We’ll be getting off even earlier,” Lathe said. “I don’t want to go into the Strip this trip. Just parallel it and drive past the prison.”

  Fuess sent a brief glance sideways. “You won’t see much that way.”

  “True, but we won’t be scanned, either.”

  “You’re armed?” The Argentian sounded irritated. “I told you you can’t take weapons into the Strip.”

  “That’s why we’re not going there,” Lathe said patiently.

  “Forgot to tell me, huh? Like you forgot to mention Caine would be coming along?”

  “What are you getting all hot about? You’re just here to assist, remember?”

  “Sorry,” Fuess muttered, barely audible over the hum of the van’s wheels. He looked at Lathe, and Caine caught a glimpse of a wry smile. “I guess I’m used to being in charge of these missions.”

  Lathe dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. “Is that the Strip wall ahead?” he asked.

  “Yes. We’ll have to swing parallel to it for a ways to get to Henslowe.”

  “Turn down the next street—we’ll keep our distance for a while,” Lathe ordered. “There’s a gate in the wall just this side of the prison, isn’t there?”

  “Yes—Avis Street runs through it, crossing Parlertin just outside the wall. I could give you a look at the gate from Avis, then turn down Parlertin and drive past Henslowe.”

  “Good. Do it.”

  Caine pushed himself into a kneeling position and got a glimpse of the wall as Fuess made his turn. It was a dirty-white slab rising three or four meters above street level and topped by a meter of metal-mesh fence. The gate was like the ones in Capstone’s wall, but with what looked like two pedestrian turnstiles flanking it. Four guards were visible; there may have been others out of sight. Settling back to the floor, Caine wondered how Lathe was going to handle this one without the stacked deck the blackcollars had given themselves with the Capstone wall.

  The van continued on. Still unable to see anything worthwhile, Caine drifted into his own thoughts—and was jolted out of them as Fuess abruptly made a sharp right-hand turn. Looking up, Caine saw that Lathe was staring back through the rear windows, his expression tight.

  “Is he following?” Fuess asked.

  “Not yet,” Lathe replied, still looking back.

  “Who?” Caine asked, stretching to try to see.

  “Keep your head down,” Lathe ordered. “I think we’ve picked up a tail.” He turned back to face front, pointed ahead. “Fuess, turn left there and get us back to the wall.”

  “You think that’s wise?” Mordecai asked.

  Lathe shrugged without turning. “If it’s a collie trap, we’re already inside it. Might as well keep going and watch for a place to punch our way out.”

  A cold knot settled into Caine’s stomach. He’d expected Security to move against them eventually, but had assumed the attack would be aimed at Radix HQ. Lathe’s suggestion that Faye Picciano might be a spy flashed through his mind. She’d known the blackcollars would be making this trip today.

  “Hell!” Fuess snarled and hit the brakes. Caine grabbed for the support strut and hung on as the van made a hard right and accelerated, sending him sliding along the floor. Scrambling back, he had barely gotten himself wedged in again when Fuess braked once more. With a prolonged screech of tires, the van came to a stop.

  “Roadblock,” Lathe said quietly before Caine could form a coherent question. “We’re bottled into an alley; car crossways in front, second car pulled in behind us. Looks like five collies in each. Four coming in, one staying back with each car in backup position.”

  “Shall I take them?” Mordecai asked with a calmness that made Caine shiver.

  “Not yet. Let’s get in the open first. Watch for my signal.”

  The words were barely out of Lathe’s mouth when the rear van doors were abruptly wrenched open and a pair of pistol muzzles were pointed in. “Everyone out,” an authoritative voice snapped. “Move!”

  Silently, Mordecai slid out, keeping his hands visible. Caine took his cue and did likewise. A heavy hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side of the alley. Mordecai was shoved against the other wall; and a moment later Lathe and Fuess came back to join them. The four Security men from the front car were close behind, and their appearance quashed any thoughts Caine had had of waiting until they were herded into vehicles before overpowering the guards. Lathe hadn’t mentioned that one of the Security men was lugging four sets of heavy-duty mag-lock forearm shackles. Once secured, Caine knew, that type of restraint could only be removed by special equipment. If they were going to make a break for it, it would have to be right away.

  Clearly, Lathe had followed the same line of reasoning. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked the guard holding him, his free arm gesturing with just the right degree of nervousness. It was his other hand, though, which gave the subtle signal: attack!

  “Shut up—” was all the guard g
ot out before Lathe’s knee snapped sideways to catch him in the abdomen.

  The guard’s pistol fired reflexively as he doubled over, but Caine didn’t wait to see which way the darts went. Twisting his right arm against his own guard’s grip, he broke free, simultaneously sweeping the gun away with his left hand. He wasn’t as fast as Lathe; one shot at point-blank range tore into his shirt and ricocheted from the flexarmor beneath. There was no second shot; Caine’s elbow smashed hard into the guard’s face and two more punches sent him sprawling to the ground.

  He never got a chance to do more. Even as he assessed the general situation—Fuess just finishing off his guard, Lathe’s crumpled at his feet, Mordecai lashing out at the rest with three already down to his credit—there was a sharp report behind him, and his hands and scalp erupted with white-hot lances of pain. He gasped and tried to turn, his arm coming up to protect his face; but a second later it fell numbly to his side and his legs turned to rubber beneath him. The world tilted crazily and exploded into a shower of sparks.

  The sparks cleared away slowly, and he found he was facing the alley wall from a distance of perhaps thirty centimeters. Between him and the wall was a hand with three slender needles sticking out; gradually, he realized it was his own. From behind him came cautious footsteps, and then a voice: “Okay, Garth, they’re all down.”

  “You sure?” came a more distant voice. “They may be wearing body armor.”

  “Sure I’m sure,” the first said impatiently. “I can see needles in skin on all of them. Get over here and help me cuff ’em.”

  More footsteps as the front backup man came around the van. “What happened? I couldn’t see much up there.”

  “You wouldn’t have seen much more back here,” the first retorted. “They just exploded. I’m lucky I was behind the car—there’s something with lots of points stuck into the fender and I didn’t even see who threw it. C’mon, get those cuffs loose.”

  Straining with all his might, Caine tried to clench the hand lying in front of him. It made no move he could detect, but the effort sent waves of pain along the dimly felt arm. He tried it again, and again, desperation fueling his efforts.

  And suddenly there was an exclamation from one of the Security men, cut off by a flurry of thumps. Clothing rustled, and a metallic clank was followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the ground.

  For a moment there was silence, as Caine tried once more to move. Then a gnarled hand came into view and lifted his limp hand. A second hand injected his wrist with a small hypodermic. Even before it was withdrawn he felt a prickly tingle coursing down his arm, and seconds later he had enough control to turn his head and look up.

  Lathe was kneeling beside him. “How do you feel?” the old blackcollar asked.

  Caine’s tongue was still somewhat numb. “Better,” he managed. “How—?”

  “Later. Can you sit up?”

  With Lathe’s help, Caine forced himself into a sitting position. The ends of the needles fell away as he did so, their tips already partially dissolved, though still solid enough to hurt. The tingling was fading, and aside from some trembling in his arm and leg muscles he felt nearly recovered. “I’m okay, I think, if I don’t have to fight right away,” he said. “The others okay?”

  Lathe’s mouth twitched in a slight smile and he glanced over Caine’s shoulder. “Mordecai?”

  “We’re about ready,” the blackcollar’s voice said, the words slightly slurred.

  Gripping Lathe’s arm, Caine got to his feet and turned around. Mordecai was just helping Fuess to a standing position; sprawled in the middle of the alley were the two backup Security men.

  “We’d better get moving,” Mordecai said, looking at Lathe.

  Lathe nodded and stooped to pick up two of the paral-dart pistols. “The front car’s closer. Let’s go.”

  They moved around the van, Caine and Fuess still a little wobbly. The patrol car was old but well-equipped, carrying communications and electronic locator equipment as well as what looked like a paral-dart rifle. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Lathe pulled the rifle from its clips and handed it to Caine as the latter climbed into the back seat with Mordecai.

  “I can drive,” Fuess objected as Lathe waved him to the front passenger door.

  “Maybe later,” the comsquare said, eyes and hands exploring the instrument panels. “For now, just get in.”

  Fuess complied, clearly unhappy with what he probably considered a demotion. Reaching across the seat, Lathe handed Mordecai the two dart pistols he’d picked up. “Check the magazines, will you?” he said. Gripping the wheel, the comsquare gave the instruments a final once-over. “Here we go.”

  They hadn’t quite reached the corner when a voice abruptly came from the car speaker. “Station Topper Fifteen, report. Are prisoners secured?”

  “What do we tell them?” Fuess stage-whispered.

  “Nothing.” With one hand Lathe activated the locator screen, bringing a section of Calarand’s street plan into view. “Maybe they’ll assume the car’s occupants are still busy. See if they’ve got the rest of their cars programmed into this thing.”

  As Fuess fiddled with the controls, Mordecai spoke up. “Whatever you wind up doing, don’t count on these guns. They’ve only got three rounds between them.”

  “The rifle’s only got two,” Caine reported. “Looks like someone was playing things safe.”

  “Sure does,” Lathe agreed. “Two shots per gun, just in case we somehow managed to get hold of one. Clever.”

  “Speaking of clever,” Caine said, “what did you and Mordecai pull back there with those darts?”

  “Mordecai didn’t pull anything,” Lathe said. “He was paralyzed with everyone else. So was I…for a few seconds.”

  “Station Topper Fifteen, respond!” the speaker snapped abruptly. “We track you moving west on Maris; do you need assistance?”

  “Ignore it,” Lathe ordered as Fuess reached for the microphone. “Let them keep guessing.”

  “They’ll figure it out soon enough,” Fuess argued. “If I can fool them into thinking we’re Security men, we may gain some time.”

  “Too late.” Mordecai pointed at the locator screen. “There were a lot of other blips on the screen a minute ago—security car positions, probably. They just vanished.”

  “We’ve been cut out of the information net,” Lathe amplified. He glanced both ways as they entered an intersection, turned right. “Did you get their setup?”

  “A double semicircle with its base against the wall,” Mordecai said.

  “They’ll be shifting, though, won’t they?” Caine asked.

  “Yes, but it’ll take time,” Lathe pointed out. “As I was saying, the trick I used was very simple. When the darts hit me I made sure to fall on my left arm, breaking the subcutaneous capsule of antidote I planted there this morning. The rest follows easily, of course.”

  “Of course.” Caine had wondered why Lathe had seemed to leave most of the fighting to Mordecai. Now he understood. “Lucky it didn’t break early.”

  “Life’s full of calculated risks.”

  “Hey!” Fuess said suddenly. “That’s Parlertin Street and the wall up ahead—you’ve gotten us turned around!”

  “Not really.” Reaching forward, Lathe touched the switch that activated the car’s warning lights. The traffic ahead of them swerved to get out of the way, and Lathe made a smooth turn onto Parlertin. “The way they’re set up implies the Strip wall is part of their enclosure,” the comsquare continued. “They won’t be expecting us to go that direction.”

  “Into the Strip?” Fuess yelped. “That’s crazy!”

  “Another calculated risk,” Lathe corrected mildly. They’ll have to scramble to cover all the Strip’s exits, and in the confusion we’ll have a better chance of slipping out.”

  “We’d do better to run for it directly,” Fuess ground out.

  Lathe glanced at the Argentian. “Recommendation noted, Commando,” he said with a c
oldness that surprised Caine. “Now strap in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fuess muttered.

  Ahead, through breaks in the traffic, Caine caught glimpse of more warning lights. “Someone coming,” he said, pointing.

  “I see it,” Lathe said. “You strapped in? Good. Hang on, everybody.” Tapping the brakes, he turned right and once more accelerated. Barely twenty meters ahead was the wall’s Avis Street gate.

  The Security guards behind the mesh, caught completely by surprise, had no chance to offer resistance Both froze for a second, then scrambled madly to get out of the way. Caine never saw whether they made it; his eyes closed automatically as he braced for the impact.

  They hit with a spine-wrenching shock that threw Caine hard against his seat belts as the air exploded with the screech of tortured metal. For a long instant he was sure the gate had held …and then, abruptly, the were accelerating again and the racket was falling behind them. Opening his eyes, he saw through the badly cracked windshield that the front of the car was still relatively intact. “We made it!” he said, not quite believing it.

  Beside him, Mordecai exhaled quietly. “I wasn’t at a sure that would work,” he said.

  Lathe seemed to be fighting the wheel. “Security cars are usually built pretty strong. I wouldn’t want to track that on the inner wall’s gates, though.”

  “You were right,” Fuess admitted, shaking his head. I apologize, Comsquare. You pulled it off.”

  “Save the back-patting for later,” Lathe told him short. “Look for a car we can commandeer—this one’s crabbing to the left.”

  Glancing down a cross street as they passed, Caine caught a glimpse of warning lights. “Security car approaching from the west,” he reported.

  “From behind us, too,” Mordecai added.

  “Okay.” Lathe turned left at the next street and immediately braked to a halt. “Mordecai, play backstop. We’ll take that car up ahead.”