Timothy Zahn - Blackcollar - The Judas Solution

"Then both of you get going."

"That won't be necessary," the older man said calmly, lowering his gun to the ground. "My apologies for the test, but we had to be sure."

"Sure about what?" Flynn demanded. "That we weren't easy targets?"

The older man inclined his head toward Jensen. "That you were blackcollars."

"Toby was right," the younger man said, massaging his forehead where Flynn's knife had caught him.

"You must have come in on last night's shuttle glide path. Security's spotters have been buzzing over that area all day."

Flynn glanced over his shoulder, but the trees blocked his view of that part of the sky. "Toby keeps track of such things, does he?"

"He's got a fair amount of time on his hands," the older man said dryly. "He's also got a cabin a couple hundred meters upslope of our town where he gets a good view of pretty much everything that goes on."

"And whose side is Toby on?" Jensen asked.

The older man shrugged. "All he needed to do was call Security and suggest they might be looking too far east," he pointed out. "But he asked us to come look for you instead." He lifted his eyebrows. "And you, my friend, are in considerable pain. What can we do to help?"

"I don't know," Jensen said. "What can you do to help?"

"Anything I can." To Flynn's surprise, the older man straightened up into military attention. "John Adamson, former sergeant-medic with the TDE Army of Western America."

For a moment, Jensen didn't speak. Then, slowly, he released the tension on his slingshot pouch and lowered the weapon. "I may have a cracked rib or two," he said.

"And you made it this far?" Adamson asked as he crossed over to Jensen and carefully opened his coat and shirt.

"Actually, it only happened on the far side of that ridge," Jensen said. "We ran into a bear."

"You fought a bear?" the younger man said, his eyes widening.

"Only a little one," Jensen said, wincing as Adamson's fingers probed gently at his side.

"Yeah, right," the younger man said. "Five to one it was Bessie."

"You name the animals around here?" Flynn asked.

"Just certain ones," Adamson said. "Bessie's sort of a fixture in these parts. By the way, this is my son, Vernon."

"Call me Trapper," the younger Adamson said. "Okay if I get the rifles?"

"Go ahead," Jensen told him. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," Adamson said. "I'll need to get you to my house and get this—what's it called? flexarmor?

—get this flexarmor off you before I'll know for sure."

"We going to want a stretcher, Dad?" Trapper asked as he retrieved the two rifles.

"Probably," Adamson said, looking at Flynn. "You've got the longest coat. Mind if we borrow it?"

"Sure," Flynn said, unfastening his coat as he walked toward them.

"His name's Flynn, by the way," Jensen said. "How far are we going?"

"A kilometer or so," Adamson said. "Not too far." His lips compressed briefly as he took Flynn's coat and started fastening it closed again. "The trick's going to be sneaking you in past the rest of the townspeople."

"And the sensor pylon," Trapper added.

"The what?" Flynn demanded, his hand involuntarily squeezing his nunchaku.

"Relax—it's mainly an aircraft spotter," Adamson assured him. "Fully automated, put there to make sure nothing sneaks up on their homestead out at Idaho Springs. Should be easy enough to keep you out of its view."

"Our job as a town is to keep it maintained," Trapper explained. "That was the price thirty years ago for Security to let us stay out here instead of herding us back to Denver like they did with the people in a lot of the other small towns."

"With all of you being properly loyalty-conditioned, of course?" Flynn asked.

"Oddly enough, no," Adamson said, kneeling down and spreading Flynn's coat flat on the ground, flipping over the sleeves to point above the collar. "You have to remember that this was right after the Ryqril occupation began, when they were scrambling to loyalty-condition every possible threat.

Someone apparently decided a hundred or so people out in the middle of nowhere weren't worth the effort."

"Especially since the pylon was mostly automated anyway," Trapper added, handing his father one of the rifles.

"Doesn't mean we're all rabidly anti-Ryqril, of course," Adamson said, sliding the rifle up the hem of the coat and pulling the barrel up into the right-hand sleeve. "Actually, most people are in a kind of live/let live mode these days." He slid the other rifle up the other side, poking it through the left-hand sleeve.

"But there are still some of us left who haven't forgotten," he added, straightening up and looking at Jensen. "Your carriage awaits you, Commando. You need a hand getting down?"

"I can make it," Jensen said. "Shouldn't we wait until nightfall, though?"

"It'll be tricky enough when we can see where we're going," Adamson said. "Don't worry, we'll hear anything that's coming long before it can see or hear us."

Jensen gave him a rather wan smile. "Because this here's your home, and you know pert' much what you're all doin'?"

"Something like that," Adamson said, smiling back. "Don't worry, no one in Shelter Valley actually talks that way. We just bring it out for the tourists."

"I'm sure you get so many," Jensen said. "Flynn, go get the packs, will you?"

By the time Flynn emerged Jensen had made it to the ground and was lying on his back on the coat.

"Afraid I don't have as much strength and stamina as I used to," Adamson confessed, gesturing Flynn toward the rifle stocks sticking out of the coat by Jensen's feet. "But I can carry the packs."

"We've got them," Trapper said, taking one of the packs from Flynn and putting it on as he moved to the front of the makeshift stretcher. "Dad, can you help Jensen with his legs?"

"Sure," Adamson said, stepping over and getting a grip on Jensen's ankles.

"Shouldn't we unload the guns?" Flynn asked as that thought suddenly struck him.

"They aren't loaded," Adamson assured him. "We didn't want a misfire or accident hurting anyone."

"We've got a few rounds in our pockets if we need them," Trapper said, squatting down and getting a grip on the coat sleeves and the rifle barrels inside them. "Say when."

A moment later he and Flynn had the makeshift stretcher up, with Jensen's back and head lying on the coat and his legs angled up to rest on Trapper's shoulders. "I know this is going to sound ridiculous,"

Adamson said, stepping in front of his son, "but try not to bounce him more than necessary."

"Don't worry," Flynn said, cocking an eyebrow down at Jensen. "It'll be as smooth as a drop pod entry."

"Terrific," Jensen said, closing his eyes melodramatically. "I'm dead."

"Not on my watch, you aren't," Adamson said firmly. He gave a short whistle, and the big Lab bounded back into view from behind a stand of trees, clearly eager to get moving. "Let's go."

They dropped Poirot off in a quiet part of town five blocks from the main Athena entrance, and by the time he got the blindfold off their car had disappeared around a corner.

They'd left him his hailer, and for a minute he considered calling an autocab to take him the rest of the way. But it was a nice night, and he had a lot to think about. Squaring his shoulders, he got his bearings and headed off at a brisk walk.

He quickly regretted the decision. Quiet though the area might have been, there were still plenty of people around, none of whom had apparently ever seen a Security general before. Everyone seemed to find it necessary to stop and stare, many of them turning around and continuing their examination even after he'd passed. Some of those stares, he noted uncomfortably, had a degree of hostility to them.