Timothy Zahn - Blackcollar - The Judas Solution

"I see," Flynn said, his voice suddenly thoughtful. "But if it wasn't Security, and it wasn't a random hiker, the only possibility left is that it was Torch."

"Bingo," Jensen said, nodding. "And of course, a Torch observer wouldn't have interfered with us because we had Bernhard and Anne along, both of whom he would have recognized."

"Okay," Flynn said. "The question then is whether he's still there. That's the first question, I mean."

"And the second question?" Jensen asked, frowning.

"Whether he's going to like what you're planning to do."

Jensen grimaced. Had Flynn figured it out? "All I said was that I was going to make sure the Ryqril didn't get into the mountain," he reminded the other.

"And there aren't a lot of ways for a couple of men to do that," Flynn countered. "Even if one of them is a blackcollar."

"There's no couple of men involved," Jensen said firmly. "I'm going in alone. You're going to Denver to hook back up with Skyler."

"Jensen—"

"No arguments," Jensen cut him off. "This is my job, not yours."

For a minute neither of them spoke. "Well, at the moment it's all rather academic," Flynn said at last.

"I'm not dead yet," Jensen reminded him. "Give me the rest of the day. I'll be ready to travel by nightfall."

"Yeah," Flynn said. "We'll see."

The corridor outside the interrogation rooms was silent and mostly deserted, the bright overhead lights belying Bailey's own dark mood. He'd been pacing back and forth for nearly five hours now, stopping at each room in turn to eavesdrop for a few minutes on the intercom, then moving on to the next, eventually restarting the whole cycle. The interrogators had been at it for those same five hours, through the night and to the dawn that was breaking across the prairie land to Athena's east.

Six interrogation rooms. Six prisoners. Hardly the twelve suspects he'd hoped to bring in when he'd set the operation in motion.

Still, he should probably consider himself lucky they'd gotten even that many. Only two of the rebels had actually escaped the nets, and one of those—Silcox—had had a good deal of help. Of the remaining four, three had been killed as they tried to escape, and the fourth was in the hospital undergoing emergency surgery for the gunshot wounds he'd received after being clever enough to avoid the paraldarts.

At the end of the hallway the elevator opened, and Bailey turned to see Lieutenant Ramirez step out, nodding as he passed the duty guard at his station. "Any news?" Bailey asked as the other came up to him.

"Nothing from the hospital," Ramirez said. "And Major O'Dae says he's drawn a blank on the interrogations of Reger's men. They're all apparently standard homegrown thugs, with no idea what his involvement with Phoenix might be."

Bailey nodded. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected the blackcollars to be caught that easily."

"No, sir," Ramirez said. "Speaking of whom, we've found the remains of the drop pod they arrived in.

You said there were four blackcollars at Reger's place?"

"That's what I saw," Bailey said. "That local troublemaker—Kanai—plus Skyler, Hawking, and one other I didn't recognize. Why?"

"Because the men who found the pod said it was bigger than the four-man ones Lathe and Caine used to bring in their teams last year," Ramirez said. "This appears to have been a six-man version."

Something cold ran up Bailey's back. "Are you suggesting there could be three more blackcollars running around loose out there?"

"Yes, sir," Ramirez said grimly. "I'd like permission to expand our search to the entire area around where the drop pod came down."

"Granted," Bailey said grimly. The local blackcollar activity that had rumbled through Denver over the years had ceased last summer after Lathe and his team left Earth. But it wasn't until a tip a few months ago had led them to a mass grave with six flexarmor-clad bodies that he'd dared to hope the problem had gone away for good. Now, it seemed, the Plinry blackcollars had decided to bring their insane war back for another round. "Get hold of Major McKarren—he should be in the main communications room—and have him put together some more search parties. You and he can coordinate which areas your respective offices will handle."

"Yes, sir," Ramirez said, not moving. "There is one other possibility we should consider."

"You mean the chance that the larger pod is a diversion designed to pull our men out of the city and waste their time in a wild-goose chase?" Bailey suggested.

Ramirez's face flushed slightly. "Yes, sir," he said, sounding embarrassed. "I'm sorry—I should have realized you'd already have thought of that."

"No apology necessary," Bailey assured him. "Actually, I tend to agree with you. The blackcollars were trained to be city guerrilla fighters, not alpine troops. Unless there was an accident or malfunction, I can't see them voluntarily tramping up and down the mountains."

"Though they did plenty of that last time they were here," Ramirez pointed out.

Bailey grimaced. Yes; Trendor's strange and still unexplained assassination. "That operation was still based out of the city," he said. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to see if there are any other likely targets out there they might be gunning for."

"Shall I get started on a name search?"

"O'Dae can put someone on that," Bailey said. "You concentrate on getting every spotter we've got into the—"

From down the corridor came the sound of a door opening, and Bailey turned to see one of the interrogators step out into the corridor. He spotted Bailey and Ramirez and gestured urgently.

Bailey hurried over, Ramirez right behind him. "What is it?" he asked as he reached the door.

"You'll want to hear this, Colonel," the interrogator said, gesturing them into the room. Inside, Bailey found a dark-haired young woman slumped in her chair in a verifin-induced daze. "Go ahead, Bryna," the interrogator said encouragingly. "Tell me again about Whiplash."

"Wonderful stuff," the woman said, her words slurred and dreamy-sounding. "It makes you ..." Her voice trailed off.

"Bryna?" the interrogator prompted. "Tell me what Whiplash does."

"It makes you ... you don't have to like the hose-snouts anymore."

"Hose-snouts?" Ramirez murmured.

"South Denver street slang for Ryqril," Bailey told him, frowning. Don't have to like the hose-snouts anymore? What the hell did that mean?

And then, steel bands seemed to close around his chest. "My God," he said softly. "Does she mean—?"

"I think so, sir," the interrogator said tightly. "She's said it at least three times now, and in different ways. I don't think it's an artifact of the verifin."

"I don't get it," Ramirez said, sounding confused. "What's she trying to say?"

"She's saying," Bailey said quietly, "that Phoenix has found a way to break Ryqril loyalty-conditioning."

Ramirez stared at Bailey, then back at the girl. "I think I'd better get those spotters in the air."

"Yes," Bailey said mechanically. "Wilsonn, keep at her. See if you can find out how much of this Whiplash stuff they have, where they got it from, and where they keep their supplies."

"Yes, sir," the interrogator said, and turned back to the girl.

Bailey gestured to Ramirez, and together they left the room. "You see to the spotters," he said. "I'm going to give the Ryqril a call. They're sure as hell going to want to know about this."

With a grunt, Foxleigh drove the last nail into the rough board and stepped back to inspect his work. It wasn't pretty, that was for sure. But once the south and west walls had been completely redone the cabin should be a lot cozier when the winter winds started blowing.

Or at least it would until new gaps opened up between the boards. A fact of life here in the mountains.