Blackcollar

  “Send the message, Commander,” Bakshi said. His eyes and laser, Caine noted, were firmly fixed somewhere to the left, past the console where Nmura sat. It puzzled him—and it clearly irritated Tremayne.

  “Look at me, damn you!” the Radix leader snarled suddenly. “Or haven’t you got the stomach to face me?”

  The barest hint of a smile twitched Bakshi’s lips, and he shook his head minutely. “Sorry, Ral, but at the moment you’re not any danger to me. Commando Mordecai is a different story.”

  “Mordecai?” Tremayne glanced to his left.

  Caine turned his own head more slowly. The best hand-to-hand fighter that ever lived, Lathe had once called him; but standing motionless in Bakshi’s line of fire, a head shorter and twenty-five kilos lighter than the Argentian, he looked merely old. “You overestimate me, Comsquare,” he murmured, echoing Caine’s thoughts.

  “I don’t think so. Fuess, McKitterick, and Couturie were no blackcollars, but they were damn good fighters. I have a great deal of respect for anyone who could take them as easily as you did—far too much to take my eyes off you.”

  “So you knew they were fakes all along,” Caine said slowly. “And vice versa, of course. A pity Mordecai didn’t kill them more leisurely.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped you,” Bakshi said. “They never knew about me. I reported directly to the Ryqril.”

  “To the Ryqril.” Tremayne’s voice was quiet, almost calm. But his face was pale, and the one eye Caine could see burned with hatred. “Betraying your own race for a lousy—what’s the going rate these days? Still thirty pieces of silver a person?”

  Bakshi sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I was trying to help.”

  “Of course. Without traitors we couldn’t possibly have functioned.”

  “You couldn’t have survived? Bakshi snapped, his icy veneer cracking for a second. With a visible effort he regained his control…and when he spoke again there was infinite sadness in his voice. “Don’t you see,” he said softly, almost pleadingly, “that the Ryqril could never have let an effective underground function this close to the Chryselli battle front?”

  “So you chose emasculation for us, did you?” Tremayne spat.

  “It was that or mass destruction. Apostoleris had the Calarand and Millaire HQs infiltrated from top to bottom. You could have been wiped out in a single night if the Ryqril had ordered it. The outlying Radix cells would have been dealt with even more harshly—whole towns killed, probably, to make sure of getting everyone. Is that what you wanted for Argent, Ral? Really?”

  Tremayne exhaled loudly. “There are worse things than dying for a cause you believe in. Living as someone’s tame pet, for instance.”

  “I didn’t think you’d understand,” Bakshi said, his voice weary. “And get your hand away from your laser. You wouldn’t even clear the holster with it.”

  “No.” Tremayne’s voice was even. “I’m not accepting Ryqril charity anymore. Let’s see if your spineless toadying left you enough guts to gun me down.”

  “Ral,” Bakshi began warningly—

  And a chunk of silver light flashed across the room from Caine’s right, catching Bakshi’s gun arm at the wrist and knocking it to the side.

  The impact wasn’t all that great; Bakshi kept his grip on the weapon and would have had it back on target in half a second. But for Mordecai half a second was all the time in the world.

  His spinning kick sent the laser clattering off the bridge wall with the sharp crack of breaking bone. Bakshi countered with an ineffective kick toward Mordecai’s stomach and leaped back a meter, landing in combat stance. Mordecai was on him instantly, and for a few seconds the two men stood nose to nose, arms flashing in attack and counter with sudden speed. They broke apart for a moment, and Caine could see a bright line of blood trailing from Bakshi’s tightly compressed lips before the Argentian threw himself forward in a final desperate attack. Mordecai stood his ground…and with one more flurry of punches it was over.

  Tremayne, breaking out of his momentary paralysis, finally yanked out his laser. His eyes seemed uncertain of the proper target, though, flicking between Bakshi’s crumpled form and the corner where Lathe had risen to his feet. “You can put that away,” Lathe advised him grimly. “It’s all over now. Nmura, give the other ship a course and get us moving before the Ryqril realize they’ve lost the ball.”

  “Uh…yes, sir.” Caine glanced around in time to see a thoroughly confused-looking Nmura turn back to his console.

  Lathe walked over to Bakshi, trailing flakes of charred flexarmor and the odor of burnt flesh as he did so, and squatted down to check briefly for a pulse. Rising to his feet, he faced Tremayne, the latter still clutching his laser. “It’s all over,” he repeated. “Unless you have doubts that Bakshi was really a spy, of course.”

  Slowly, Tremayne slid the pistol into its holster, his eyes glancing at the gash in Lathe’s flexarmor. “Just another of your little tricks, huh?” he said bitterly. He shot an angry look back at Caine. “I suppose Caine’s laser was specially rigged or something?”

  Lathe shook his head. “It was just as deadly as yours—Bakshi wouldn’t have been fooled by anything else. I’m wearing a double thickness of flexarmor, with a thin slab of raw meat between to give off the right smell. If Caine had somehow missed and got my head instead I’d be dead now.” He had his gloves off now; tiredly, he wiped his forehead.

  “We’re on our way, Comsquare,” Nmura spoke up. “Course heading about ten degrees from target.”

  “You could have told me,” Tremayne growled. “Or didn’t you think I could be objective where treason from my own top lieutenant was concerned?”

  Lathe gave him a long look. “Your objectivity wasn’t in question,” he said quietly. “It was your loyalty I wasn’t sure of.”

  Tremayne stiffened, but the explosion Caine had expected didn’t come. “I trust you can explain,” he said, his tone icy.

  “Do you remember the ambush Security laid for us in Calarand, the day I went into Henslowe? The car that stopped us was prepared with four of the heavy-duty-mag-lock shackles. Four, not three. You and Bakshi were the only ones in the garage that morning, the only ones that knew Caine would be going along. We were in a closed van, so Security’s spotters couldn’t have counted us, and I’d made sure no one else had been in the garage. So one of you was a spy, and we had to give that one a chance to hang himself. This is what we came up with.”

  Slowly, Tremayne nodded. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Absolutely right. And I never even came close to picking it up.” He looked down at Bakshi. “A blackcollar. I can still hardly believe it.”

  Lathe suddenly looked very old. “Neither could I. That’s why I waited so long. I wanted to hear why he’d done it, to try and understand him.”

  “I suppose in his own way he thought he was serving us,” Tremayne said. “Hijackings of food and Idunine—that kind of operation always worked. I don’t think I ever noticed that before. Probably part of his deal with them.”

  Lathe stepped across the bridge and stooped to pick up the weapon he’d hit Bakshi’s wrist with. For a long moment he stared at the dragonhead’s glittering red eyes. Then, almost savagely, he jammed the ring back onto his finger. “His job wasn’t to make life easy for you—his job was to fight the Ryqril.” He glanced at Skyler and Mordecai, nodded toward Bakshi’s body, turned his back on it. “Commander, what’s our ETA for the Diamond?”

  “Both freighters have left orbit,” the Security man reported, tapping a key on his console. Displays came to life, showing the ships’ locations and projected course. “Do you want me to compute possible destinations, Colonel?”

  Eakins shook his head. “They’d be foolish to head for the Novas directly. Wait until they’ve changed course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eakins walked back to the middle of the command center, where Galway waited. “You heard?”

  Galway nodded. “Any idea when the Ry
qril plan to spring their trap?”

  “Not really.” Eakins looked back at the displays. “If I were the Ryq in charge, though, I would have sprung it before now. Do you suppose something’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Galway’s neck was beginning to ache again. “Maybe Caine would only give them a course to follow instead of the exact location. Or maybe Lathe simply outsmarted the Ryqril agent.”

  Eakins gave him a sharp look. “You hope he has, don’t you?” he asked in a low voice. “You’d actually like the Ryqril to lose this, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Galway admitted. “If I were suddenly transported to that ship with a laser in my hand I know I’d die trying to stop them. But I’m here, where I can’t do anything one way or the other…it’s hard to explain. Ever since I was prepared, my service to the Ryqril has been tied up with service to the people of Plinry. As Security prefect I maintain order partly because I’ve been ordered to do so, but also partly because the Ryqril would retaliate if I didn’t.” He nodded toward the displays. “Every failure to stop Lathe is going to cost Plinry something—even if those Corsairs out there eventually get him. But if he somehow manages to pull this off, he may be able to force them to at least go a little easier on us.” He started to shake his head, but winced at the pain. “Am I making any sense?”

  Eakins shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, really. But you’ve been pretty badly hurt,” he added kindly. “Come on, there are a couple of cots downstairs. We can both do with some sleep, and they can’t possibly get anywhere in under thirty hours.”

  “Yeah.” But it seemed so straightforward—or it did until he tried to explain it. Was his love of his world really so hard to understand?

  The hell with it. “Yeah,” he repeated. “And I think I need another pill, too.”

  Chainbreaker II had been switched to night mode some hours previously, and as Lathe entered the bridge he was struck by how bright the stars in the display screens seemed by contrast. Some of those “stars,” of course, were actually asteroids.

  The bridge’s single occupant turned at the sound of the opening door. “Hello, Comsquare.” He nodded. “What can I do for you?”

  “Your officer should have received a coded signal from the other ship within the last hour, and I wanted to make sure it was the proper one. Where is he?”

  “Lieutenant Inouye’s in the lounge, on break. If you watch the bridge, I’ll be happy to go get him.”

  “Please.” Unstrapping his safety harness, the other got up and left the bridge. Lathe waited a count of five after the door closed, and then set to work.

  It took only a few seconds to call up the Novas’ most recently updated position figures from the computer. Reaiming the communicator and adjusting it for the proper medium-tight beam took considerably longer, but it couldn’t be helped: the message had to reach a large part of the Diamond without being picked up by Chainbreaker II, a hundred klicks to their side. But finally everything was ready. Encoding the position figures was a trivial matter of adding a fixed number to each and then rearranging their order, something he could do in his head even as he typed them into the pulse transmitter. Finished, he mentally crossed his fingers and pushed the “transmit” button five times.

  He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment—there wouldn’t be one—but immediately cleared the pulse transmitter memory and computer display, and then reset the communicator to its original setting.

  When the starman returned with Lieutenant Inouye they found him hunched over the sensor hood, searching the sky for signs of pursuit.

  CHAPTER 32

  “THERE!” TREMAYNE EXCLAIMED, TAPPING the display screen with a finger. “That’s got to be it.”

  Caine glanced at the two sets of numbers on the computer screen, noted the minute difference between their own present position and that of the Novas. “I think you’re right,” he seconded.

  “Damn thing’s got to be five klicks across,” Nmura muttered, squinting at the irregular rock hanging in the middle of the screen. “If they’ve got any sensor shielding at all it could take us hours to find them.”

  “We only need to find one,” Tremayne said grimly. “If Jensen can get the weapons working on even one we stand a chance.”

  Caine looked sharply at Lathe. He’d assumed the comsquare had already told Tremayne the truth about Jensen’s fictitious magic touch, but it was clear that Lathe had not. “Tremayne—” he began.

  “What’s the latest on the Corsairs?” Lathe interrupted, giving Caine a warning look. Swallowing, Caine clamped his jaw firmly shut.

  “The three coming in from Argent have an ETA of about six hours,” the starman at the sensor hood said tightly. “But I can see four more drives coming in from widely different angles.”

  “Start the search immediately,” Tremayne told Nmura. “We’re cutting things pretty close already.”

  For Caine, the next three hours were both the longest and the shortest he’d ever spent in his life. Even with both freighters running complementary patterns over the target asteroid, the search was an exercise in slow frustration—the Novas were too well shielded and their ships too poorly equipped for rapid progress. Compounding the agony was the fact that there was nothing he personally could do to help. He was thus forced to stand by helplessly, watching the rocky surface of the asteroid crawl by on one display screen while the Corsair drive trails grew steadily brighter on the others.

  It was to the drive trails that his gaze returned most frequently. The Corsairs were coming in at full power, without making any attempt at sensor shielding. Clearly, Bakshi had passed Lathe’s lie on to his superiors and the Ryqril warriors were trying to beat out a deadline that didn’t exist. More than once Caine wondered if Lathe had considered the possibility that the Corsairs might launch missiles from maximum range without giving the comsquare a chance to put whatever scheme he had planned into operation.

  Lathe. Caine had been following the old blackcollar—had been obeying his orders or otherwise dancing to his time—practically since his arrival on Plinry. Now, with his forced idleness giving him time to think, Caine realized the man was still largely an enigma to him. He had played a senile fool on his own world for years; then, without missing a beat, he’d become a leader with the full support of his men—men whose lives he was risking on a secret plan he wouldn’t even discuss with them. Why did they follow him on such blind faith?

  But, then why was Caine doing so?

  Caine didn’t know…and it was looking increasingly like he wouldn’t live long enough to find out the answer to that. Or to anything else, for that matter.

  “Got something!” the man at the sensor hood snapped suddenly. The helmsman didn’t wait for Nmura’s order, but threw the ship into emergency deceleration and began a slow reverse thrust. For a moment the air was brittle with tension. Then—“There it is, Hullmetal….I think it’s the bow, Commander. Wait—keep going…yes…yes, there’s a second one down there, too.”

  “Look here,” Tremayne pointed at the display screen, excitement in his voice. “You can see the outline of the cave or pit here—” he traced a barely visible curve snaking across the craggy surface—“and here. This could be one, too—I’ll bet all five are right here.” He looked over at Lathe. “You’d better get Jensen into a suit so he’ll be ready to go the minute we find the way in. We haven’t got much time.”

  “Actually—” Lathe glanced toward the displays—“I’m afraid I was a little dishonest with you on that. Jensen really can’t do anything special with the Novas.”

  “What?” Tremayne’s voice was soft.

  “But as it happens,” Lathe continued, “our time limit’s no longer critical, either.” He gestured toward the screens.

  Caine turned to look…and froze at what he saw.

  “Oh, my God!” Tremayne breathed. “Where in hell did that come from?”

  Even to Caine the answer was obvious. The huge warship bearing down on them was mov
ing at low speed, its drive trail diffuse and virtually invisible except at close range. Without such visual cues even the simplest sensor shielding would have been enough to hide the ship’s approach from the freighter’s equipment. “They must have been practically on top of us when we got here,” he said mechanically. Part of him still refused to give up…but the rest knew it was over.

  “But how could they have known?” Tremayne snarled. His voice showed he, too, knew they were finished.

  “Because I sent them the location almost twenty hours ago,” Lathe said calmly.

  Caine spun to face the blackcollar, his hand falling to his laser butt. “You what?”

  “Relax,” Lathe advised, “and take another look. It’s not what you think.”

  Frowning, Caine looked back at the screen. The warship, nearly Nova-class size itself, was growing clearer by the second as its delicately spined ellipsoid form began to fill the display.

  It was Nmura who spotted it. “That’s not a Ryqril design,” he said, sounding puzzled. “At least not one I’ve ever seen.”

  “No reason why it should be,” Lathe told him. “It’s a Chryselli ship.”

  “A Chryselli?” Nmura gasped. “What in hell is a Chryselli doing here?”

  And it all clicked together. “Dodds!” Caine whooped. “That’s where he’s been—whistling up some help!”

  Lathe stepped to the communications board and made an adjustment. “Comsquare Damon Lathe aboard Chainbreaker I to Frank Dodds; come in, please.”

  Dodds had clearly been waiting; almost instantly the small communications screen came alive with his broadly smiling image. “Dodds to Lathe and Chainbreaker I,” his voice boomed from the speaker, sounding as relieved as Caine felt. “Glad you could make it. What’s the situation?”

  “We’ve got a number of Corsairs vectoring in on us, but I don’t think they’ve got anything heavier in the system,” Lathe said. “Can you hold them off until we get the Novas activated?”