Blackcollar

  The shot never came. Simultaneously, both guards’ heads snapped back, and the two men collapsed into heaps on the ground. The inside man gaped at them for a heartbeat, all the time he had before he too was dropped by O’Hara’s hidden blackcollar marksmen. And the gate was still open.

  With a shout of triumph Henrikson led the way through the barrier. Some of the teen-agers stopped to strip the downed guards of weapons; and when a carload of Security men whipped around a corner seconds later it was caught completely off-guard, riddled with laser burns before its occupants could react. That gained them eight more weapons, and soon the air was filled with laser fire as the rioters vented their rage on the surrounding buildings. Again Henrikson shouted and gestured, and the mob once more began to move forward, striking out for the Hub’s business and governmental center.

  Because he was watching for a Security attack on their rear, Durbin saw the three vehicles—an autocab, a private car, and a van—that slipped out the abandoned gate behind them. Phase one completed, he thought, ticking off an imaginary checklist. Now came phase two, the mission that gave them the title of Bait: to draw down upon their own heads the worst the collies could offer. Shivering slightly, one eye still on their rear, he hurried to keep up with the mob.

  The report reached Galway while still en route to the Security building. “How many got in, Sergeant?” he asked tersely.

  “A couple hundred at least, sir,” Grazian, who had taken over the main desk duties, said. His voice quavered despite obvious efforts to control it. “I don’t know how. All three guards just collapsed suddenly while the gate was open, but the power and metal detectors didn’t show anything that could be a weapon.”

  “Slingshots,” Galway muttered.

  “Sir?”

  “Blackcollar sniper’s weapon,” the prefect amplified. “Put out an M-Seven; I want everyone in riot gear immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grazian said. Simultaneously, a large red M-7 appeared on Galway’s car display screen. “Done, Prefect.”

  Galway pressed the reset and the M-7 vanished. “All right, now what about the other men we lost?”

  “They were the four backups you’d ordered to that gate. They’d just called in that they heard the rioters when they were hit. I guess they thought the mob was still outside the wall.”

  “Why?” Galway pounced. “You were monitoring it, weren’t you? Why didn’t you warn them?”

  “Sir—I—” Grazian sounded miserable. “It all happened so fast….”

  “So you froze, and four men are dead.” Galway’s words were harsh, but his anger was quickly changing to apprehension. The blackcollars had the initiative now—as the attacker always did—and his Security forces weren’t responding nearly fast enough. They’d trained for this sort of thing, of course, but no one had taken it seriously for years. Could they get organized in the heat of battle? Galway wasn’t sure.

  One thing he was sure of, though: allowing his men to be tied down defending the Hub was an invitation to disaster. He had to stop the riot, and fast, before the blackcollars pulled whatever else they had planned. “Sergeant, what do we have in the air?”

  “All eight spotters are up, coordinating the ground action. The mob’s pretty well fragmented now, and each group has at least one stolen weapon. Mobs are starting to form outside the other gates, too, but so far we’re holding them back.”

  And coordination was about all the spotters could do; they lacked the sophisticated firepower for pinpoint attacks that could hit the rioters without tearing up the surrounding neighborhoods. But there were ships on Plinry that could accomplish that. “Call the ’port. I want their patrol boats immediately.”

  “All six of them?” Grazian sounded doubtful. “That’ll leave the ’port undefended.”

  “They’ve got their fence, don’t they? Besides, clearing out the rioters with those boats won’t take long. If they get nervous they can always ask the Ryqril to take a couple of Corsairs up.”

  “Yes, sir.” A pause. “I have the ’port duty officer now; channel three.”

  Switching his phone, Galway gave the orders.

  They came in low over the city: six sleek aircraft, heading in from the north and displacing the stubby Security spotters that moved up to give them room. From his lonely tree-crowned hill two klicks east of the city Trevor Dhonau counted them as they appeared, nodding in satisfaction. Galway had called the ’port patrol boats into the fray a bit sooner than he had expected, but that was all right: Dhonau and Terris Shen, the other Swatter, had been in position for nearly an hour.

  Squatting behind the sights of his twin-tube rocket launcher, his game leg stretched awkwardly to the side, the old blackcollar permitted himself a moment of mild regret. It had been so long in coming, this last act of defiance, and he wished he could see it through to the end. But someone had to take Swatter duty, and better him than someone with two good legs. Idunine could keep you alive a long time, but for damaged tissue other treatment was needed—and the collies’ refusal to supply that was just one more score that needed settling.

  The moment passed, and Dhonau actually smiled as he picked up the trigger grip and thumbed off its safety. All of them had had a price to pay, and if his was to be heavier than the average that was merely a comsquare’s duty. Certainly Lathe had done his share without flinching. Dhonau winced inside as he thought of Lathe’s lonely vigil as their contact man, the patient wait in that highly visible role for the long-shot contact that had finally happened. He would be a good successor, Dhonau knew. He just hoped there would be enough pieces left after tonight for Lathe to pick up.

  Almost time. The patrol boats were settling into position over Capstone, hovering on gravs as they sought the rioters. Dhonau waited until they were nearly stationary, and then gently squeezed the trigger grip.

  With a burst of sparks and the sizzle of water dropped on a hot griddle, the tiny surface-to-air missile shot from the leftmost firing tube. Shifting aim, Dhonau fired again.

  The result was all Dhonau could have hoped for. A blue-white sun burst dead center on one of the boats, which yawed wildly in dying reflex before plummeting to the ground. A second craft, maneuvering frantically to avoid its flaming companion, backed directly into the path of the second missile. It didn’t even have time to fall, but disintegrated instead in midair as a secondary explosion of its fuel and armament momentarily lit up the sky. A third patrol boat swung dangerously near the ground, impelled by the force of the explosion, and was just regaining equilibrium when a missile rose from Shen’s position to the southwest, bringing it down for good. It had all happened so quickly that only then did the thunderclaps from the explosions finally reach Dhonau’s hill.

  The old blackcollar grinned as the sound washed over him. Three down in the first salvo—better than he’d expected. The other three boats were buzzing around like hornets now, seeking their attackers, but Dhonau wasn’t particularly worried yet. The boats, though of Ryqril manufacture, were copies of pre-war Terran design and Dhonau knew that their sensors couldn’t simultaneously handle both narrow and wide-angle detection. Concentrating on the rioters in Capstone, they couldn’t possibly have tracked the missile trajectories. A basic problem with stealing someone else’s technology, Dhonau reminded himself dryly: the original owner always knew too much about it.

  Two of the boats had shifted to a standard search pattern now, the third rising to a high-altitude position where it could watch the whole area. An unimaginative approach, and potentially expensive: it could cost them one of their low-flying boats to locate each Swatter position. Dhonau reloaded his tubes, waiting for the searchers to move closer. But as he watched, one of them broke sharply from its path, swinging in a tight circle off to Dhonau’s left. Shen had been spotted.

  The other Swatter knew it, too, and two missiles flashed out in quick succession. Both exploded harmlessly in midair, caught by bursts of laser fire.

  Dhonau cursed under his breath even as he swung his firing
tube around and squeezed the trigger. It would give his position away, but he had no other choice. With both tubes empty, Shen would be a sitting duck for several seconds before he could reload.

  The missile arced toward its target—and Dhonau’s gut-feeling that the collie crew were essentially rookies was confirmed. Concentrating on Shen’s defenseless position, they completely missed the arrow climbing up their exhaust until it was too late. Even then, the pilot tried to escape the inevitable, scooting maybe a hundred meters before the missile caught up with him and ended his flight. Dhonau grimaced with contempt even as he searched the sky for the remaining boats. A blackcollar pilot, seeing death was certain, would have held position and crashed on his enemy.

  Suddenly, with a roar, the hilltop erupted with blue flame, and he just managed to snap his eyelids shut before the concentrated laser fire could blind him. The light winked out as fast as it had come, leaving the gentler flame of burning vegetation in its wake. Dhonau lay on the ground where his reflexes had thrown him, feeling his inner flexarmor layer grow hot enough to scorch skin. Opening his eyes, he tried to see around the purple afterimage in front of him. He’d been lucky, he knew; if the attacking boat had stayed overhead instead of making a fast strafing run he’d be dead by now. Even so, his flexarmor wouldn’t survive another attack. Rolling over, he gave the sky a quick scan and turned to his rocket launcher.

  Not good. The missiles seemed intact, but the thinner metal of the firing tubes had warped slightly in the intense heat. Gritting his teeth, Dhonau opened the breech of the nearest tube and began removing the firing mechanism.

  He was flat on the ground a second later as an explosion ripped through the air, and he turned his head just in time to see a crippled patrol boat spin helplessly to the ground. One more for Shen. But the triumph was shortlived; seconds later the last patrol boat dropped from the stars and Shen’s position was abruptly awash with laser fire. Another second and Shen’s remaining missiles blew, sending a fireball high into the sky. Still the boat swept the area with its lasers, making sure their enemy was dead. With one final tug, Dhonau got the firing mechanism loose. Picking up one of the missiles, he stumbled down the hill, working on the connection as he traveled.

  The jury-rig was ready by the time the boat swung around and headed toward him. Lying back against the hill, the old blackcollar froze, the missile tucked firmly under one arm. There was no hope of escaping detection; the light from the burning trees above him would reflect clearly from his half-vaporized flexarmor. His only hope was to play possum and lure them close enough for one last shot.

  The boat moved toward him; not slowly, but not with the crushing acceleration of a strafing run, either. Dhonau waited, holding his breath…and finally he judged the boat near enough. His left hand squeezed convulsively on the trigger grip, and the missile blasted away from him, its exhaust burning his right arm and side. He gasped with pain and shock as his vision wavered. But before he passed out he had the satisfaction of seeing the patrol craft’s tail shattered by blue-white flame.

  He was already dead when the crippled boat crashed to the ground where he lay.

  The mud outside the ’port was cold, and the scrubby trees did nothing to break the light wind coming in from the north. James Novak hardly noticed the elements, though; spread-eagled five meters from the outer fence, his full attention was on the sparse lights of the buildings across the field. He’d been watching them for the past half-hour, waiting tensely for signs that the blackcollar force had been spotted. But apparently the deliberate slowness of their crawl had left the collies’ motion detectors untriggered. Now only the fence and its associated defenses stood between them and the shadowy Corsairs.

  For a moment Novak focused on the fence itself. Unlike the Hub’s protective wall, this barrier had been built by the Ryqril, to Ryqril military specs. Besides the motion sensors implanted in the nearly unbreakable mesh, there were metal and radiation detectors designed to watch for heavy equipment and to help aim the antiaircraft lasers mounted on the ’port tower. For antipersonnel defense, there were strips of needle mines on both sides of the fence, triggered either by pressure or by the fence’s sensors. It was small wonder that the fence had never even been attacked, let alone breached.

  Any minute now, though, and that would be ancient history. Just minutes ago the ’port patrol boat crews had rushed out to their aircraft and headed out like big brother out to settle some bully’s hash. They should have arrived over Capstone by now….

  He saw the first flash from the corner of his eye, and glanced over in time to see the second and third. Looking back at the ’port buildings, Novak fidgeted as he tried to judge the timing. The patrol boats had to be sufficiently engaged that they couldn’t easily break off and return, but he couldn’t give the Ryqril any head start toward their Corsairs, either.

  In the barracks, a light suddenly came on.

  Novak didn’t wait any longer. Reaching to his left he flipped the switch on the short mortarlike gadget he’d carefully anchored in the mud twenty minutes ago. Regular ladders were useless near the fence; either they were large enough to trigger the motion sensors, or they took too long to set up. However….

  With a hiss of compressed air a telescoping, semirigid tube snaked out of the mortar barrel, clearing the top of the fence by two meters. Even before the arch was completely formed, a white fluid began flowing through it, spilling into a pool on the ground across the fence and squirting generously through perforations in the hose itself. The liquid solidified rapidly as it hit air, and within seconds a solid, half-meter-diameter bridge was in place. Shutting off the flow, Novak began to climb, using the natural hand and footholds that eddies had frozen into the surface.

  Three mines went off in sequence as he passed over them, the needles doing only minor damage to the bridge as the tough foam in turn slowed them down to energies his flexarmor could easily handle. Off to his left, he could hear similar explosions as Kwon and Haven led their teams over.

  The tower lasers were apparently not set to automatically fire on a ground-level intrusion—a system, Novak decided, that the collies would probably regret very soon—and he reached the far side without being shot at. His twenty-man team was right behind him, the twelve trainees climbing almost as well as the eight blackcollars. Crouching near the foot of the bridge, Novak waited until the others were across.

  “Everyone ready?” he whispered.

  “Ryqril!” someone hissed, pointing.

  Novak had already seen the alien figures pouring from their barracks. “No problem,” he said confidently, though his mouth seemed unusually dry. “Let’s move.”

  They fanned out into the darkness, the blackcollars heading to intercept the approaching aliens as the trainees scattered among the parked Corsairs. By now the Ryqril would have discovered the emergency floodlights were gone—Haven’s sharpshooters had taken care of that earlier—and would realize a major assault was in progress. Novak swallowed hard as he slipped between the rows of parked fighters, feeling out of practice and very vulnerable.

  Ahead, in the starlit area between the Corsairs and the Ryqril barracks, a one-sided battle was already in progress as hidden blackcollars picked off the approaching aliens with slingshot and throwing star. Occasional flashes of laser light briefly illuminated the scene, but the aliens seemed understandably reluctant to risk damaging their Corsairs.

  That phase ended quickly, though, as the surviving Ryqril reached the shadows around the Corsairs. Crouching near the front landing skid of one of the fighters, Novak realized he had a macabre game of hide-and-seek on his hands. The aliens had realized that firing a laser invited a quick death and had adopted the blackcollars’ skulking technique, relying on their short swords and superhuman speed. It was a risky game for both sides: the Ryqril had a numerical edge, but the longer they delayed the obvious gambit of putting one or more Corsairs in the air, the better the blackcollars’ chances. Sliding a gloved finger under his right sleeve, Novak tapped
out a message on his tingler: Ryqril gone to ground; hurry with main objective.

  His answer was a short flurry of combat-coded orders as Kwon and Haven shifted some of their forces to his aid. With luck, the Ryqril would be effectively encircled before they realized it—

  A faint rustle of cloth was Novak’s only warning. He half leaped, half rolled to the side, not quite fast enough, as a short sword whistled through the air and caught his left forearm. He twisted the limb as fast as he could, letting the blade skitter off along the flexarmor sleeve, but it still felt like being hit with a brick. He continued his roll, yanking out his nunchaku and lashing out blindly in an effort to keep his assailant away until he could regain his balance. The counterattack was clumsy, and the Ryq avoided it easily, swinging under it at Novak’s neck. But the alien apparently underestimated blackcollar reflexes. Novak evaded the blade by a whisker, took a couple of steps back, and drew a long knife from his left forearm sheath.

  The Ryq was on him immediately, slashing silently with speed and skill. Sweating under his flexarmor, Novak continued to back up, fending off the attacks with knife and nunchaku. His left arm ached fiercely, a mute reminder of his danger. Theoretically, the sword couldn’t penetrate his flexarmor, but the blows were easily hard enough to break bones if they landed right. And once disabled…well, the Ryq could always strangle him.

  Novak swallowed involuntarily. He was between two rows of Corsairs now, exposed to the faint backwash of light from the distant buildings. It was a lousy position to be in—not only was he wide open to attack, but the Ryq could easily be forcing him toward a second alien’s hiding place. Desperately, he tried to take the offensive…but the alien was a trained warrior, too. Slowly but steadily, Novak lost ground.