Timothy Zahn - Blackcollar - The Judas Solution

"Not really," Jensen said. "I was just thinking that gun has a definite military look about it."

Flynn glanced up at the bottom of the cabin. "You think Toby was in the war?"

"It's possible," Jensen said. "I know that on Plinry, at least, the Ryqril tried to tag all the vets when they took over, particularly the officers. Maybe Toby holed up out here hoping to evade the net."

Flynn thought about the old man living in a one-room cabin for the past thirty years. "Seems to me the hunt should be over by now."

Jensen snorted. "It was probably over three to five years after the occupation started," he said. "If he's hiding from the Ryqril, this is serious overkill."

"Maybe he likes it out here."

"Or maybe he got the gun some other way," Jensen said, his voice going dark. "Found it, or stole it."

A chill ran up Flynn's back. "Or killed for it?"

"Possibly," Jensen agreed grimly. "It might explain why he's still out at the back edge of nowhere."

"So what do we do?"

"For now, we stop talking," Jensen said, wincing as he rearranged his harness around his injured ribs.

"Sound can carry strangely in the mountains."

"I just hope he's not planning to turn us in," Flynn murmured. "This would be a rotten position to fight from."

"We'd manage," Jensen assured him, peering upward. "I just hope his visitors don't ask to use the facilities."

Foxleigh was sitting at the table, whittling industriously at a random stick he'd grabbed from the wood bin, when the two Security men arrived.

Typically, they didn't bother to knock. "Boulder Security," the younger of the two said brusquely, as if their uniforms weren't enough of a clue. "Who are you?"

"Who wants to know?" Foxleigh countered, not looking up from his carving.

The man snorted and grabbed the end of Foxleigh's stick. "When I ask you a question—"

Foxleigh let go of the stick, shifted his grip to the man's wrist, and pulled it sharply downward toward the tabletop. The other stumbled forward, off balance; and as he did so, Foxleigh twisted the knife around to point toward him.

The man froze with shock and probably astonishment, the knife point no more than ten centimeters from his stomach. "Manners, sonny," Foxleigh said softly. "You'd be surprised how far they get you."

"Smith?" the kid demanded in a choked tone, his wide eyes staring at the knife.

"Easy, Griffs," the older man said soothingly. He had his paral-dart gun out, pointing it at Foxleigh.

"You, too, friend. We're just here to talk."

"Tell him that," Foxleigh suggested.

"Everyone just relax," Smith said. "Griffs, apologize to the man."

"Me?" Griffs demanded. "Smith—"

"Apologize to the man," Smith said more firmly.

Griffs glared at Foxleigh, his throat working. "Sorry I grabbed your stick," he said through clenched teeth.

"There we go," Smith said encouragingly. "Now let him go, okay?"

"It's all about manners," Foxleigh said, releasing Griffs's wrist.

Breathing hard, the other took a step back from the table and yanked out his own paral-dart pistol. "Drop it," he snarled.

"It's dropped," Foxleigh said, laying the knife on the table and folding his arms across his chest. "Now ask your questions and get out."

"Let's start with your name," Smith said, lowering his gun to point at the floor.

"I'm called Toby," Foxleigh said.

"Toby what?" Griffs demanded. His gun, not surprisingly, was still pointed at Foxleigh's face.

"Just Toby."

"Look—"

He broke off at a gesture from Smith. "What do you do up here, Mr. Toby?" the older man asked in a more reasonable tone.

Foxleigh shrugged. "I live," he said. "Pretty much the same thing you do in the city."

"I meant, how do you survive?" Smith said. "Food and clothing and all?"

"There's plenty of game about," Foxleigh said. "I do some hunting and trapping, and I've got a small vegetable plot around the side of the cliff face over there."

"And the people in Shelter Valley help you out, too, I suppose?"

Foxleigh grimaced. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Some of them. Only when I can't do for myself."

"And that's not very often, I imagine," Smith said, glancing around the cabin. "You seem the selfsufficient sort. Tell me, how long have you been up here?"

Foxleigh shrugged as casually as he could. Here was where things were going to get dicey. "Don't remember exactly," he said vaguely.

"Since before the war?"

"Some, I guess," Foxleigh conceded.

"And you were, what, sixty or so when it began?" Smith persisted.

It would have been nice to be able to bring that number down to somewhere around thirty, Foxleigh knew. It would line up with his actual age and eliminate a lot of potentially unpleasant questions.

Unfortunately, there were people in Shelter Valley who might remember the real Toby being in his upper fifties when he turned his back on humanity and moved out on them. "Closer to fifty," he said, fudging the number as far as he could.

"Which would make you about eighty years old," Smith concluded, peering closely at Foxleigh's face.

"You're in mighty good shape for a man that age. Especially given the kind of life you lead."

"Life like this keeps a man healthy," Foxleigh countered. "You soft city folk ought to try it sometime."

He lifted his eyebrows at Griffs. "Especially you."

Griffs bristled, but another gesture from Smith kept him quiet. "I'm sure it does," Smith said. "But it doesn't keep you that healthy." His eyes hardened. "You've been getting Idunine, haven't you?"

That was, of course, the obvious first assumption for them to make. Trouble was, it had the potential to get all of Shelter Valley into nearly as much trouble as the truth would. "What if I have?" Foxleigh growled. "Is that a crime?"

Smith shrugged. "Depends on how you've been getting it."

Foxleigh lowered his eyes. "Don't want to get anyone in trouble," he muttered.

"You won't," Smith assured him.

Foxleigh knew how much that promise was worth. But he had little choice in the matter. "It was the doc in town," he admitted. "Doc Adamson. He gave me a little once when my leg was acting up so badly I couldn't walk."

"When was that?"

"Ten years ago," Foxleigh said grudgingly. "Maybe twelve."

"Did it work?"

"Good enough," Foxleigh said, watching the other's face out of the corner of his down-turned eyes. So far he seemed to be buying it. "I still have some trouble, especially in the cold. But at least I can get by."

"So what other illegal drugs does Doc Adamson have?" Griffs asked.

"Who says Idunine is illegal?" Foxleigh demanded, glaring up at him. "Used to be you could get it all the time before the war."

"Before the war," Griffs repeated tersely. "This is after the war, and Idunine is strongly regulated.

Somehow, I don't see a backwoods witch doctor having legal access to it."

"Maybe he had some left over from before," Foxleigh said, looking accusingly at Smith. "You said he wouldn't get in trouble."

"If he was just using up an old supply, he won't," Smith assured him. "But if he's black-marketing it ...

well, we'll see."

Foxleigh grimaced. That was, in fact, the story he and Adamson had worked out all those years ago in case someone started asking these very questions. He just hoped the doc hadn't forgotten the details. "So is that it?" he muttered.

"Just about," Smith said. "You said you did some hunting. That mean you have a gun?"

"No, I brain the deer with rocks," Foxleigh bit out sarcastically. "Of course I have a gun. It's over there beside the bed."

"Guns are regulated, too, of course," Smith pointed out as Griffs strode over for a look.

"Yeah, why am I not surprised?" Foxleigh said with a sniff, watching Griffs closely as he took the old scattergun off the rack. "Careful with it—careful."