The Blackcollar (4 page)

"Fine." They'd no doubt searched his things en route, but there wasn't anything incriminating for them to find. As far as Caine was concerned, the sooner Security came to the conclusion that Alain Rienzi was an honest—if not overly bright—member of the government, the better. "Thanks for all your help, Prefect. I expect I'll be seeing you again."

Galway smiled. "Very likely. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rienzi."

The Coronet, while probably run-of-the-mill as government hotels went, was the most luxurious Caine had ever seen. His room boasted a full-sized bed with sleepset and fantistim attachments, a private bathroom, room service conveyor, and an entertainment center that even included a computer terminal.

He unpacked carefully, storing his clothing in the walk-in closet and the drawers built into the bed frame. As he worked he kept an eye out for hidden cameras or bugs, but didn't spot any. Not that it mattered—he knew the bugs were there somewhere, but he wouldn't be doing any important work in the room, anyway.

His unpacking finished, he looked over the menu list by the phone and called down an order. Then, kicking off his half-boots, he sprawled face-down across the bed, a wave of fatigue rolling over him. Outside, Plinry's sun was only halfway from zenith to horizon; mid-afternoon of a thirty-hour day. But Caine's biological clock was still set on ship's time, and for him it was already approaching midnight. He could run another hour or two on nervous energy, if necessary, but there seemed no point to that. Morning would be early enough to get to work.

Rolling over, he propped up his head with the pillow and reviewed his situation. His identity as Alain Rienzi, at least, should be rock-solid now, especially after that asthma attack. The pills had been clearly issued on Rienzi's medical profile, something Prefect Galway was bound to have noticed. How Marinos back on Earth had managed to switch those records—or how he'd had the foresight to do so in the first place—Caine couldn't imagine. But it had worked out well, and it should have allayed any suspicions Galway might have had.

Galway. Caine shifted uncomfortably as he tried to form a coherent picture of the man. The slightly pompous, slightly fawning, slightly bumbling image that had been Caine's first impression was sharply inconsistent with the prefect's actions during the asthma attack. He'd made a fast, correct diagnosis and had followed up on it without a single wasted motion—even to remembering exactly where Caine had put his pills. A competent, confident man... who had tried very hard to give the wrong impression of himself. Why? Did he normally play this game with visitors, or was Caine a special case? At this point there was no telling, but it made Caine uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, it was supposed to.

A soft chime made him start, and it took a second for him to realize the sound was just the herald of his dinner tray. Getting up, he retrieved it from the conveyor and took it across the room to where a table and chair were automatically folding down from the wall, presumably keyed by the chime.

The food was foreign to him but good nonetheless, and as he ate his spirits revived somewhat. The mission had hardly started, true; but then, he'd already come farther than he'd expected to. He'd reached Plinry, had safely penetrated enemy territory, and had established an excuse to go wandering around asking questions of Capstone's citizens. From his fourth-floor window, he could just see the top of the gray wall that separated the Hub from the rest of the city, and raising his glass to his lips he silently gave a toast to those on the far side. Even if General Lepkowski were truly dead, the common people had surely organized an underground against the Ryqril and the Hub.

Tomorrow he would go out and find it.

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 teenagers. 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 teenagers.

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."