The Blackcollar (26 page)

"I meant that as a compliment," he told her, frowning.

"I know." She dropped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm... I don't plan to be a leader much longer. Or a follower, for that matter."

Caine blinked. "You're quitting Radix?"

She nodded. "Just as soon as someone's willing to take over Janus sector. Why? Is that so strange?"

"I thought your father...." He trailed off, not knowing a safe way to end the sentence.

She raised her eyes again, and he was struck by the bitterness there. "Yes, my father
did
raise me to be a good Radix member. It's about all he ever did for me." She shifted her gaze to the window. "Radix was my father's whole life. He never gave my mother and me enough of himself. It hurt Mom terribly. I hated him for a long time because of that." She rubbed a finger across her lips, almost savagely. "I'm not going to make that mistake. I'm getting out
now,
before the damn thing takes over my life."

"Why are you still here, then?" he asked after a moment.

A sardonic smile. "I guess that's something I got from both of them: a sense of duty. I have to stick with it until someone can do my job." She shook her head. "Look, I didn't come here to cry on your shoulder. All I want to know is what kind of risks my men will have to face."

He'd almost forgotten her original question. Meeting her gaze with his own, he tried to think.

What could he say? He didn't have the foggiest idea what Lathe intended to do—and even if he did he couldn't risk telling Lianna. Not that she was particularly untrustworthy; his instincts felt better about her than many others he'd met in Radix. But instinct wasn't enough to go on here. For an instant he saw in her his own demand to know more about Dodds's mysterious mission, and abruptly felt a twinge of sympathetic pain. Her responsibilities were every bit as important to her as Caine's were to him, and she was even more in the dark than he was.

And he had to leave her there. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything that'll help you. All I can do is promise you won't be put into action without
some
kind of information."

Nodding heavily, her lips pressed tightly together, Lianna stood up. "I expected that answer, but it was worth a try," she said as Caine got to his feet as well. For a moment she impaled him with her eyes. "Just remember that this can't stay under your armor forever... and if we're being set up for a slaughter you'll have more trouble than you want. Rural Radix cells like mine are pretty tight; we don't take orders well from outsiders when we don't know what's going on. I don't care if I get the explanation five days or five minutes in advance—but I have to have it
sometime.
Keep that in mind."

Nodding to him, she turned and walked away. He stayed where he was, watching as she exchanged nods with the blackcollars and left. The door thunked solidly behind her, and Mordecai sent a questioning look at Caine. "Well?"

"Nothing important," Caine muttered, turning his back and sitting down in the chair Lianna had just vacated. If they felt insulted, that was just too bad.

He was a clone. With an effort, he tried to feel anger over what had been done to him.

The rain had been pouring down steadily for the past three hours, and even with the protection of the trees lining the road Jensen was getting soaked. His blackcollar poncho didn't seal tightly enough against the neck of his Security uniform, and every three or four minutes a fresh trickle of water would find its way inside. Jensen had given up swearing at the situation long ago, at about the same time he decided regretfully that he couldn't afford to find a wide-crowned tree and wait out the storm. He was still too close to the mountains and he needed every klick he could get.

A sudden splash came from behind him, and he turned to see a car rolling quietly through the mud toward him. Behind the dim lights he could make out a single occupant.

If he'd heard it coming sooner he could have ducked behind a tree, but it was too late for that now. Standing motionlessly, he waited as the car pulled to a stop beside him.

The side window slid down and Jensen found himself facing a cheerful-faced man. "Hi, there," the driver nodded. "Rotten day to be out. Can I give you a lift?"

Jensen thought quickly, but he really had no choice. Alone, on foot, and apparently unarmed, he couldn't realistically claim to be a Security man on special patrol, and there was no other excuse he could think of that required him to be out in this vertical lake. And to refuse a ride without reason could draw unwelcome attention. "Sure. Thanks," he said. Walking around behind the car, he opened the door and climbed in, spraying water over the seat. Under cover of the movement he drew his
nunchaku,
laying the weapon across his lap. With a slight jerk as its wheels pulled free of the mud, the car started up again.

"Where you headed?" the driver asked pleasantly, apparently oblivious to the water running onto his seats and floor.

"Down the road about twenty kilometers," the blackcollar replied. "I took a bad turn and my car got stuck at a dead end a ways back," he added, to forestall the obvious question.

"Ah."

Jensen studied the other out of the corner of his eye. Short, a little plump, somewhere in his late thirties if he wasn't on Idunine—it wasn't exactly the profile of the Security men he'd seen so far. But he could easily be an informer. "Where are
you
going?" he asked.

"Torrentin, eventually. If this rain floods the bridge I may be stuck on this side of the river awhile. What's at twenty kilometers from here?"

For a second Jensen didn't understand the question. Then he caught on. "I'm meeting with a Security unit there for special duty."

"What, just by the side of the road?"

"There's supposed to be a temporary camp there," Jensen told him, sweating a bit. The line of questioning was beginning to get dangerous. He knew nothing about local geography, and practically any answer he gave could damn him instantly as a foreigner. He was beginning to wish he'd given his destination as five klicks away instead of twenty.

"Bet you're out looking for the blackcollar, huh?" the driver commented, glancing across at Jensen.

Under his poncho, the blackcollar squeezed his
nunchaku
tightly. Had the general population been told of his landing, or was that knowledge limited to the government? "My job is none of your business," he said stiffly. Even to himself it sounded lame.

"Of course." For a moment the driver was silent as he fought the car over a particularly bumpy section of the road. "Most of the searching's still north of here, I understand," he said as the car settled down. "You shouldn't have any trouble."

Jensen stiffened. "What's
that
supposed to mean?" he growled.

The other kept his gaze on the road, a half-smile etched tightly across his face. "Cutter Waldemar at your service, Commando Jensen. Our people have been looking for you for a week now. I'm glad we got to you before Security did."

Jensen had more or less resigned himself to being identified sometime during the ride, but he hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon. But he recovered fast. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snapped.

Waldemar glanced over. "Good try, Commando, but you're wasting your time. We had you identified as far back as Split, and a spot 'twenty kilometers down the road' would more likely be said as being 'near Noma.' And no one knows a blackcollar's loose in the Rumelian Mountains except Security and our organization of Radix. A real Security man would have jumped all over me for that question."

"All right. I concede." Jensen kept his attention on the other. "Now you prove who
you
are."

"Absolute proof I can't give you, but I
can
give you some points in my favor. Number one: if I were a quizler this conversation wouldn't be taking place. I'd have triggered a quiet alarm and talked about the weather while the car filled up with sleep gas. After what your rads did in Calarand yesterday morning there isn't a Security man on Argent who'd confront you alone like this."

"You seem more courageous."

"Not really; I just know you aren't an automatic killing machine, that you'll hear me out. Point two's along that same line: I'm unarmed." He raised his elbows from his sides, inviting inspection.

Jensen shook his head. "I'll take your word for it. You wouldn't be carrying weapons I could identify as such, anyway."

"Point," the other admitted. "Okay, then, here's my final card. Underneath your seat is a paral-dart pistol. Get it out."

Jensen considered. Then, slipping on his flexarmor gloves, he reached under the seat. No booby traps went off as he drew the gun out and examined it. An old compressed-air weapon, it bore the marks of heavy use, as well as those of careful maintenance. "Okay. And?"

"Underneath
my
seat is a set of maps covering everything between here and Calarand, with the most likely places to get through the Security cordon marked. In the trunk are edibles and clothing." Waldemar's voice was steady. "If you don't want to trust me, those darts will keep me out for five or six hours. You can drop me here, take the car, and try to get away on your own. I'll walk home when the drug wears off."

"Your group—Radix—doesn't want to talk to me?"

"Not especially." He sent Jensen a lopsided smile. "Matter of fact, the prevailing opinion down here is that you're all going to get yourselves killed or captured, and the less we're involved with you the better."

Jensen nodded. "Hospitable types, aren't you?"

"It's called self-preservation. Very popular in these parts."

For a long moment no one spoke. Jensen studied Waldemar's face, looking for clues, but in fact he had pretty well made up his mind. The whole thing
could
be an elaborate sucker-trap, but Security was unlikely to go to that much trouble, especially with simpler traps available. And Radix's less than enthusiastic attitude rang uncomfortably true. "All right," he said slowly. "I'm convinced. Where are we going?"

"Millaire." Waldemar's relief was unmistakable; clearly, he hadn't looked forward to taking a long walk in the rain. "That's where the southern HQ is. It's about six hundred kilometers from here, so we should be there tonight. Barring quizler trouble, of course."

"Sounds good." Jensen took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders as he did so. He hadn't realized how tired he was of being on the defensive. "I'd like to see those maps of yours, too."

"Sure." Reaching under his seat, Waldemar produced a thick sheaf of paper. "Anything you'd like to know about Radix or Argent in general?"

"Sure—everything," Jensen said agreeably. Sorting through the maps he found the one marked "Calarand" and opened it. "Why don't you start by telling me what exactly my friends did to Calarand yesterday?"

The
nunchaku
was a silent blur wrapping itself like half a cocoon around him. Lathe kept his gaze focused beyond the flail, controlling its motion solely through the feel in his muscles. The weapon changed hands once, twice, three times; interrupted its defensive pattern to snap out and back in whiplike motions that could crack skulls; folded itself back along the blackcollar's arm and shoulder, where it could block even a Ryqril-wielded short sword; and resumed its pattern as Lathe snatched and threw three
shuriken
into the targets at the far end of the shooting range.

From the door at his left came a knock. "Come in," Lathe called, breathing a little heavily as he sheathed the
nunchaku.

The door opened and Bakshi looked in. "Am I interrupting?"

Lathe shook his head. "Come on in."

The Argentian did so, closing the door behind him. "Skyler said I'd find you here. How's the shoulder?"

"Good as new." Lathe stretched his arms forward experimentally. "Just a little tightness where the burn line was. I'd forgotten what good stuff that salve is—we ran out of it on Plinry ages ago." He gestured toward the mats behind them. "If you came to work out I can prove how fit I am."

Bakshi smiled and shook his head. "Perhaps later." He paused. "Speaking of workouts, I've been talking to Fuess about your little foray yesterday. I get the impression you weren't entirely satisfied with his performance."

"Umph." Turning, Lathe set off down the range to retrieve his
shuriken.
"He said that?"

"Not in so many words." Bakshi fell into step beside him. "I'd like to hear your evaluation of him."

"All right. Yes, I was disappointed. His fighting skills aren't up to what I would consider blackcollar level. More importantly, he was a rotten soldier. He wanted to debate every other order, and even when he obeyed me it was only grudgingly. I presume I don't have to explain the need for a smooth command structure to you, do I?"

"No." They'd reached the targets now, heavy wooden boards pockmarked with hundreds of tiny pits that almost obliterated the traditional human-figure outlines painted there. Each of Lathe's
shuriken
had hit one of the outlines directly in the throat. Extracting one of the stars, Bakshi turned it idly in his hand. "You're a good marksman."

Lathe grunted as he retrieved the other two stars. "Not really. Most of my men are at least as good as I am."

"Then your men are extraordinary," Bakshi said, "or else Plinry was lucky. The Ryqril must not have used nerve gases on you."

Lathe gave him a hard look. "No, they didn't do much of that. Most of us didn't arrive until the ground war had begun, when they had too many of their own people down for indiscriminate use of gases. But don't
ever
suggest again that Plinry was lucky because of it."

Bakshi ducked his head briefly. "The groundfire attack; yes. I apologize. I guess they learned their lesson on you; here they pounded us into submission from space so they wouldn't have to use it again. My point was that many of our blackcollars were permanently affected by one of the gases. We don't talk about it much; it's still too painful a memory."

"Affected how? Slowed reflexes?"