The Blackcollar

CHAPTER 3

The director of the Archives Division was a young-looking woman whose eyes nonetheless showed the evidence of great age. She was severe, unsmiling, and as protective of her records as a mother bear. "There are no exceptions, Mr. Rienzi," she told Caine firmly. "I really can't make it any clearer. I'm sorry."

She didn't look sorry, and Caine wasn't especially surprised he'd lost his bid. But he'd had to make the effort. "Okay. I understand, I guess. Thanks anyway."

He headed out again into the early morning sunlight. Already the Hub was bustling with activity; Plinrians seemed to take their work seriously. Finding a bench near the Records Building, Caine sat down and consulted the map of Capstone that Galway had given him. He was itching to go outside the wall and start looking for the underground, but first he had to spend a few hours researching his "book" with various government officials in the Hub. A waste of time, of course, but it would look strange if he didn't start his research at the top before moving down to the bottom of society. If someone was actually watching him, that is—and someone probably was.

The interviews proved almost disconcertingly easy. All but the busiest officials seemed willing to juggle their schedules furiously to accommodate the visitor from Earth. It was amusing, in a way, to have such influence over his enemies, but Caine knew full well that it was a two-edged sword. Too much attention and publicity could be dangerous.

He taped nearly four hours of wartime reminiscences from seven officials before calling it quits. It was mid-afternoon, and he couldn't afford to waste any more time in the Hub. Finding the underground could take days; and he didn't have very many of those. Summoning an autocab, he headed toward the gray wall.

The machine let him out at the wall's northern gate, the one they'd entered by the previous day. "I'd like to go out," he announced to one of the guards on duty there.

"Yes, sir," the young Security man said briskly. "Just get back in your autocab and I'll open the gate."

Caine shook his head. "I'm walking."

The guard blinked his surprise. "Uh... that's not recommended, sir."

"Why not?"

"The common people aren't all that friendly sometimes. You might have some trouble."

Caine waved the implied warning away. "Oh, I'll be all right. Come on, open up."

"Yes, sir." The guard still looked doubtful, but he stepped to a small control panel and the mesh slid open a meter or so. Nodding his thanks, Caine went through.

He walked slowly, all his senses wide open as he tried to absorb everything around him. The city was like no other he'd ever been in, at least on the surface. But underneath were the same bitter tastes the Ryqril had also left on Earth. The dusty buildings, each two or three stories high, were boxlike and coldly functional, with even less ornamentation than their Terran counterparts. The "architecture of the vanquished," Caine had heard it called; and it was clear that Plinry had suffered considerably more than Earth from the war. The people shuffling through the streets were in little better shape. Poorly dressed, their expressions ranged from resigned to hopeless to merely blank. Most of them looked middle-aged or older; clearly, little Idunine made its way to this side of the wall. Still, young men and women had to exist somewhere, and Caine wondered where they were hiding.

He found a partial answer two blocks later. Half a block down on a side street was what seemed to be an open-air cafe of sorts, from which emanated the sound of conversation and occasional laughter. Curious, Caine headed over.

It was, it seemed, a bar. Caine stood for a moment, looking the place over. About twenty small tables were scattered around under the open sky near the walkway; another fifty or so sat farther back from the street in a sheltered area that had been created by knocking out the front wall of a one-story building. About a quarter of the tables were occupied, by older men drinking alone or in twos, or by youths in groups of half a dozen or more. It was from this latter age group that most of the noise was coming.

Just under the overhang, against one wall, was a horseshoe-shaped table behind which a middle-aged man stood watching the teen-agers. Caine hesitated, then walked over, trying to ignore the eyes that followed him.

The barman shifted his gaze as Caine came up. "Afternoon, friend. What'll you guz?"

Caine caught his meaning. "Beer. Any brand."

The other nodded and pulled a bottle from under the counter. "Haven't seen you around, have I?" he asked casually as he poured the drink into a chipped glass mug. "You new in town?"

"Just visiting," Caine told him, sipping cautiously. The beer had a strange taste, and he wondered what it had been brewed from. "Name's Rienzi."

"I'm John, Mr. Rienzi," the barman said. "Where you from?"

"Earth."

John's eyes widened momentarily, and he seemed to withdraw slightly into himself. "I see," he said, his tone suddenly neutral. "Slumming?"

Caine ignored the insult and shook his head. "I'm writing a book about the war, from the point of view of the outer worlds. I thought I'd be able to find some old soldiers or starmen here to talk to."

The other was silent for a moment. "There are some still around," he said at last. "But I doubt that what they'd say would make it into any collie book."

" 'Collie'?"

John flushed. "It's slang for government people," he muttered. "Short for 'collaborator.' "

"Oh. So their views wouldn't be very complimentary?"

"You can hardly blame them." He stopped abruptly, as if afraid he'd said too much. Picking up a mug and towel, he began rubbing vigorously.

Caine let the silence hang for a few more seconds before speaking. "I'm only a very minor government official, but I do have access to a TDE senator. If there are problems on Plinry something can be done about it."

"There's nothing you can do to help, unless you've got a million jobs in your pocket." John sighed and put down the mug he was polishing. "Look. We were stomped by the Ryqril here. That multi-damned Groundfire technique wiped out three-quarters of our population and made seven-eighths of our land uninhabitable. Most of our industry went, and a hell of a lot of farmland. A million more people starved or froze to death the first winter—" He took a ragged breath. "I won't bore you with the details. Things are improving, but we still don't have enough jobs to go around. Why else would they be here at this time of day?" He jerked a thumb toward the teen-agers.

Caine sipped his beer and studied the youths. Now that he was paying attention he could see the frustration in their faces and hands, the thinly suppressed bitterness in the clusters of empty and half-empty bottles in front of them. "I see what you mean," he said. "But I'm sure something can be done to help. I'll bring this to Senator Auriol's attention as soon as I get back. In the meantime, perhaps you could suggest other people I could talk to, both about Plinry's problems and about the war."

John's mouth tightened, and Caine could read the barman's mind: doesn't care about anything but his damn book. "Well, if you're looking for honest opinions, you could try Damon Lathe. He's right over there," he added, pointing past Caine's ear.

Caine turned and saw a grizzled old man with a bushy beard sitting alone at a table in the open-air section. He was of average height and build, and Caine judged his age to be early sixties or older. "Thanks," he said. "What branch of service was he in?"

John snorted. "He was a blackcollar."

"Really!" Caine said, not trying to keep the interest out of his voice. Laying a two-mark note on the bar, he picked up his mug and headed toward the old man's table.

Lathe, lost in contemplation of his mug, didn't look up as Caine approached; didn't look up, in fact, until Caine cleared his throat. "Mr. Lathe?" he asked cautiously. "My name's Alain Rienzi. I wonder if I might talk to you for a moment."

Lathe shrugged and waved toward one of the other chairs. "Why not? Don't get much else to do. Don't know you, do I?"

Caine sat down across the table from him, feeling the clash of experience with cherished belief. Lathe was nothing like the youthful, keenly alert blackcollar he had always envisioned. Too late, he realized he'd forgotten what thirty-five years without Idunine would do to a man. "No, I've just arrived here. I'm from Earth."

"A collie, huh?" Lathe nodded. "So how's things back home?"

Caine had expected a negative reaction similar to the barman's. The lack of one caught him somewhat by surprise. "All right. You were from Earth?"

"Yup. Born and raised in Odense—that's in Denmark. Lived there till I joined up with the blackcollars in 2420. Haven't been back for a few years—the war, you know. I'm a blackcollar—did you know that?" He spread open the neck of his faded shirt and tapped the snug-fitting black turtleneck he wore underneath. "It's real flexarmor—the sort of stuff we all used to wear." Letting his hand drop back to the table, he sighed, watery eyes gazing backwards in time. "Yes, those were the days," he murmured. "They're gone now. All gone."

Caine nodded silently, feeling as awkward as if he'd stumbled into a private wake. Whatever Lathe might have once had the Ryqril and the passing years had stripped from him, leaving a useless wreck behind. Gathering his feet under him, Caine was preparing to make a graceful exit when Lathe's eyes came back to focus. "What'd you want to talk to me about, Mr.—?"

"Rienzi," Caine supplied. "I've been looking for some of the old military men on Plinry, to talk about a book I'm writing. Would you know where any of them might be?"

"Oh, sure. We blackcollars get together and talk all the time. About the war," he added in a thoughtful voice, fingering the ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand.

Caine had already noticed the ring. Made of a heavy-looking silvery metal, it was shaped like the head of a reptile of some sort. A wide, batwing-like crest rose from the back of the head, curving smoothly over Lathe's knuckle. For eyes the reptile sported two bright red gems.

"Like it?" Lathe asked, raising his hand so Caine could see it better. The hand itself, Caine noted, looked strong, despite its wrinkled skin.

"Yes, I do. I've never seen a ring like it."

"Not surprised," Lathe mused. "The Carno fan-dragon was our symbol. Fast little devils; good hunters, too. Only blackcollars were allowed to wear these dragonheads." He snorted. "No one wears them any more. The collies don't like to see them, and the Ryqril hate them. But I wear mine." He looked up suddenly, gazing intently at Caine. "All the way from Earth, eh? Must be an important book."

"Well... it's important to me."

Lathe nodded as if he found that perfectly reasonable. "Yep. Well, I'd be happy to help you, son—Mr. Rienzi. But... my memory isn't as good as it once was." He touched the red eyes on his dragonhead gently. "I used to be a comsquare—commando commander, to you. Did you know that? Yep. Comsquare Lathe, in charge of eleven other blackcollars—best damn fighting squad in the galaxy." He shook his head and sighed. "Now it's just me."

"Your men are all dead?" Caine asked after a moment.

Lathe nodded. He stroked the ring once more, then looked up again. "But that's the past. What can I do for you—oh, that's right, you wanted to talk to the other blackcollars. Shouldn't be too hard—" He broke off and craned his neck. "Matter of fact, here comes one now. Hey, Skyler! Come here a sec!"

Caine turned to see a tall, generously built man striding down the walkway toward them. He seemed to hesitate when he saw Lathe wasn't alone, but with a slight pursing of lips he came over to the table. "Hello, Lathe," he said. His voice was firm and steady, with just a hint of good humor hidden underneath. "Who's your friend?"

"Fellow from Earth—name's Rienzi. This is Rafe Skyler, son—good pal of mine."

Caine nodded. "Pleased to meet you."

"Earth, huh?" Skyler studied Caine coolly. "Aren't you a bit out of your environment on this side of the wall?"

Caine shrugged. "I'm looking for people to talk to about the war."

"Uh-huh." Deliberately, Skyler turned back to face Lathe. "I've been thinking, Lathe. How about us getting together out at the lodge day after tomorrow? It's time we got out of this rat hill for a while."

"Sure, why not? I haven't got much to do." Abruptly, he slapped the table top. "Say! That would be a great chance for Rienzi to talk to everyone about his book. How about it, Rienzi? You want to come to the lodge with us for a couple of days?"

"Lathe!" Skyler exclaimed, aghast. "He can't come."

"Why not?" Lathe's jaw jutted out defiantly.

"He's an outsider. And a collie."

Lathe held up his right fist in front of Skyler's face and tapped his ring. "I'm a comsquare, remember? The red eyes say so. If I say he can come, he can come."

"But—" Skyler ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Oh, hell, all right. If he wants to. But the others won't like it."

Both blackcollars turned to Caine. "Well?" Skyler said.

Caine thought quickly. Clearly, the mental deterioration which had affected Lathe wasn't universal—Skyler looked only slightly younger than Lathe, and his mind seemed still intact. The blackcollars were natural rallying points for any underground movement, and the chances were good that some of those coming to the lodge would have the proper connections. He couldn't afford to pass up this chance. "If it won't cause too much trouble," he said carefully. "I'd very much like to come. It would mean a great deal to my project."

"There you go." Lathe nodded at Skyler. "I knew he'd want to go with us." To Caine he said, "The lodge is mainly east of Capstone, up in the Greenheart Mountains. You have a car?"

"I could probably get one."

"Never mind," Skyler cut in. "We'll have someone pick you up. Be at the east gate of the Hub at six-thirty in the morning, day after tomorrow."

"Fine. Thanks a lot for—" Caine broke off as a Security patrol car turned the corner and glided to a stop in front of the bar. Three men got out and headed toward them.

Run! Caine's Resistance-bred reflexes screamed, and it took a supreme act of will to hold his muscles still until the impulse passed. Prefect Galway himself headed the Security team; he spotted Caine immediately and came over, his men remaining on the walkway.

"Ah! Our Security prefect, visiting his inmates." Lathe's tone was light, but there was an edge to it that Caine hadn't heard in the old man's voice before. He clearly didn't like Galway, and just as clearly didn't care whether the other knew it or not.

Galway nodded to the two blackcollars. "Good afternoon, Comsquare Lathe; Commando Skyler." Skyler nodded in return but remained silent. Galway shifted his attention to Caine. "Mr. Rienzi, I was greatly concerned to discover you'd left the Hub alone. I guess I didn't mention that this part of town can be dangerous."

"Oh?" Caine pretended surprise. "Sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble for you. I was just looking for people to talk to about my book. And guess what? I've been invited to talk with a whole group of blackcollars!"

Skyler's eyes flashed something like disgust at that, and Caine knew he hadn't gained any points with the big man. But odds were Galway would know about the invitation soon anyway and Caine wanted to volunteer the information before he was asked about it. He couldn't afford even a hint of intrigue around him at this point.

"I'm not sure that's wise," Galway said slowly. "But we can talk about that later. If you're done out here, I can give you a lift back to the Hub; otherwise, I'll leave you one of my men as an escort."

"I'm ready to go now." Caine got to his feet and nodded to the seated blackcollars. "It was nice meeting you," he said. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Bye, now," Lathe said with a wave of his hand. Skyler stared at the table and said nothing.

"I don't think you should go out there with them," Galway told Caine as the Security car started back toward the gray wall.

"Why not? It sounds like just a sort of army reunion; old comrades getting together to play soldier again."

"These aren't ordinary soldiers, though. They're blackcollars."

Caine shrugged. "That was a third of a century ago. They surely can't be dangerous anymore. Otherwise, you would've locked them up long ago, right?"

Galway scowled. Caine realized he had pushed his point a shade too hard and backed off. "Look, I've already messed up my chance to use the archives here. This may be my only chance to salvage something from this trip. I'll be okay—really."

Galway stared straight ahead for a long moment. Then he gave a single sharp nod. "All right. I guess I have no authority to stop you, anyway."

Caine leaned back into the seat cushions, suppressing a smile. "Thank you, Prefect," he said humbly.

A dozen reports sat on Galway's desk, mute evidence that he was getting behind in his work. Leaning back in his chair, he toyed impatiently with a stylus, glaring at and through the backlog. Where the hell was Ragusin with that report?

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," he called.

The door opened and the young Security officer stepped in. In his hand was a cassette and a sheaf of papers. "I've got the stuff you wanted, Prefect," he said.

Galway nodded. "Let's have it."

Ragusin placed the cassette and half the papers on the desk and sat down facing Galway. "So far as we can tell, everything seems aboveboard. The suggestion of a blackcollar retreat came from Skyler, not Lathe, though it was Lathe's idea to invite Rienzi along. There was no chance for consultation between the two of them."

"Unless they already knew Rienzi was here and had everything planned out."

"That seems a little far-fetched," Ragusin argued.

"True," Galway admitted. He thought for a moment. "What about hand signals? Any chance Lathe could have cued Skyler to mention a retreat?"

"Uh..." Ragusin frowned. "I don't know."

"Let's find out." Galway picked up the cassette and plugged it into his intercom. Ragusin had tagged the appropriate section, beginning with Rienzi's entrance into the bar. Galway played it twice, watching carefully. "Nice," he growled. "You see how Lathe's left hand just happens to be under the table when Skyler walks up? The camera can't see it, but I'll bet you Skyler can."

Ragusin shrugged. "With all due respect, sir, I think you're making too much of this. The blackcollars have been getting together two or three times a year at that run-down lodge ever since their war ended. We watched them for fifteen years straight without catching them at anything. What's bothering you so much this time?"

Galway shook his head. He couldn't explain his gut-level feelings about the blackcollars to his aide, any more than he could explain why everything about Alain Rienzi smelled wrong to him. "It's the fact that they're breaking their pattern," he said, choosing the most easily verbalized of his concerns. "They've never before invited outsiders to the lodge; certainly not a government man."

"Excuse me, Prefect, but that's not strictly correct. You remember about six years ago when Skyler and a couple of the others tried to get the unemployed teenagers interested in martial arts classes? About twenty of their top students went up to the lodge that fall."

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten that." Galway frowned. "As I recall, those classes petered out shortly afterwards for lack of interest, didn't they?"

Ragusin nodded "So it's not entirely without precedent. And it was Lathe who invited Rienzi. Who knows how Lathe's mind works these days?"

"Lathe. Yes." Galway leaned back, fiddling with his stylus again. "What do we really know about him?"

Ragusin shuffled through his papers. "I've got his file here. Born in Odense, Denmark, on Earth, July 27, 2403. Blackcollar training began—"

"Not that stuff," Galway interrupted "Lathe told us all that himself, after the surrender. I want to know what we have independently."

"Uh.... precious little, I'm afraid. All military records on the blackcollars were destroyed back on Earth. Lathe just basically came out of the woodwork when the amnesty was offered and told us who he was. All of them did that. They could be just about anybody, as far as we really know—in fact, I don't think we've ever even seen any of them fight."

"Yes, we have," Galway said absently. "Ten years ago, when Mordecai was jumped by six toughs."

"If you really consider that mauling a fight," Ragusin said, shrugging. "I guess even blackcollar skills deteriorate without proper discipline."

"Um." Galway tapped the stylus gently on his palm. "I want a close eye kept on that retreat. You have enough bugs planted?"

Ragusin nodded. "We've got micros sewn into all of Rienzi's outer clothing, except what he's currently wearing. We'll get those tonight when they're cleaned. The bugs in the lodge are still operating, of course."

"Good Now, any word on my request for a courier to check on Rienzi's identity?"

"Afraid so, sir," Ragusin said apologetically. "The Ryqril vetoed it. No reason given, but I got the impression they thought it would be a waste of time." He shrugged "I can't say that I blame them. Rienzi's ID checked out, and they're supposed to be tamper-proof."

"I know," Galway growled "But he still bothers me."

"You think maybe he's a Ryqril spy?"

Galway snorted. If there was one thing he truly hated about the Ryqril occupation, it was the aliens' practice of maintaining their own private spies in conquered territories. As Security prefect, Galway needed to know who was operating where to do his job properly, and he didn't like having wild cards running around loose. But in this case... "I doubt Rienzi's one of theirs. If he was supposed to spy on as, they would have made him a new official assigned here, if he was supposed to work among the common people they would have landed him secretly somewhere. No, it's his story about forgetting his authorization papers that bothers me. That and his personality in general." For a moment Galway glowered at the cassette in his intercom. "Hell," he said finally, tossing his stylus back onto the desk, "we can't do anything for now except wait." He glanced at his watch. "You might as well go home. On your way out assign someone to watch the east gate day after tomorrow—I want to know who Skyler sends to pick up Rienzi. And leave those files here, too."

"Yes, sir." Ragusin set his sheaf of papers down on a corner of the desk and stood up. "Good night, Prefect."

Galway waited until his aide was gone before picking up the pile of dossiers. So damn little information—and none of it worth betting money on. He wished, not for the first time, that he'd been in charge of Security thirty years ago when the blackcollars had finally given up their guerrilla war in exchange for amnesty. Promises or no, he would have insisted on full verifin questioning then and there. Now, he couldn't do so without evidence that they were violating their parole. Gut-level feelings didn't count.

Abruptly, Galway slapped the files back on his desk and shoved them to one side. Picking up one of the reports on his desk, he forced himself back to work.