The Blackcollar Series Page 3

  “Not at all,” Galway answered. “Our security checks are done by the book here.” There was a touch of pride in his voice.

  It was only a short drive to the five-story building labeled Plinry Department of Planetary Security. Galway and Caine got out at the main entrance and went inside, leaving Caine’s luggage in the car with Ragusin. Two floors up they entered a small room equipped with two chairs, a table and phone, and a device Caine remembered from the New Geneva ’port. “If I may have your ID, Mr. Rienzi…thank you. Would you please sit here and put your thumbs on the plate?”

  Again the brief flicker of light touched Caine’s eyes. Galway tapped a switch and nodded at Caine. “You can relax now, sir. I’m afraid it’ll be another few minutes—one of the city’s computers broke down yesterday and the other two are under a heavy load.” He remained standing by the machine, as if his presence might encourage the computer to work faster.

  “No problem,” Caine said easily. “No reason why routine security checks should have a high priority.”

  Galway seemed to relax a bit. “I’m glad you understand. Tell me, are you staying on Plinry long?”

  “Just ten days, until the next flight heading back to Earth. I have to get back to work then.”

  “Ah, yes—the captain radioed that you were from the Senate. Aide to Senator Auriand, or something equally important.”

  “Auriol,” Caine corrected automatically. “Yes, I’m one of his aides. It’s really a minor post, but Dad thought this would be a good way to get some experience in politics.”

  “Your father’s in government work too?”

  “Yes. In fact, he’s been in politics since the end of the war. Started out as Councilor in Milan and is now Third Minister for Education.”

  “So you were prepared at an early age, I gather?”

  Prepared—a euphemism for loyalty-conditioned. The conversation was taking an uncomfortable direction. “When I was five,” he replied curtly, dropping the temperature in his tone a few degrees. A senatorial aide shouldn’t have to put up with questions like that.

  Galway got the message and back-pedaled rapidly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rienzi—I didn’t mean to get personal. I was just curious.” He stopped abruptly, and Caine could almost hear him casting around for a safer topic of conversation. “Are you here on business or just for a vacation?”

  This was safer territory for Caine, too. “Both, actually. I’m here on my own time and charge plate, but I’m going to be working, too.” He paused, radiating a combination of shyness and pride. “I’m going to write a book.”

  Galway’s eyebrows arched in polite surprise. “Really! About Plinry?”

  “About the war, actually. I know a lot of books have been written, but most of them focus on Earth or the Centauri worlds. I want to write one from the point of view of people in the more distant parts of the TDE. Since Plinry was a sector capital and major military base, I figure it should have all the background records I’ll need.”

  “Our archives are quite extensive,” Galway nodded. “I trust you have the proper authorization papers?”

  Here was where the bite of the government’s eleventh-hour raid was going to catch up with him, Caine knew. “What, you need permission to write books here?” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, no—I meant your permit to look in the records. You’ve got that, don’t you?”

  Caine let his grin vanish. “What permit is this?”

  Galway frowned in turn. “The standard TDE Record Search form. You need one any time you want to look at official documents.”

  “Damn! Nobody told me I’d need anything like that here.” Caine let indignation slip into the embarrassed anger in his voice. “Hell. Look, I’m a member of the TDE government, and nothing I want to see is classified. Can I maybe look at them with a guard watching over my shoulder?”

  Galway shrugged. “You can ask at the Records Building, but I don’t think they’ll let you. Sorry.”

  “Damn.” Caine glowered at the floor for a moment, then looked up at the verification machine. “Isn’t that damn computer done yet?” he muttered irritably.

  “I’ll see if I can hurry it up.” Galway touched a switch; seconds later a green light came on and Rienzi’s ID appeared. “Ah. All set,” he said, handing back the card.

  Such convenient timing, Caine thought. He doubted it was coincidence, but had no intention of challenging Galway on it. Belatedly, he was beginning to wonder if the prefect really was the eager-to-please lightweight he seemed. Fortunately, grinning idiocy was a game for any number of players. If Galway had, in fact, deliberately kept the verification machine from finishing its job Caine had every right to be angry; but it would be more to his advantage to let the prefect think he was stupid. So he took the card without comment and stood up. “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I’ll get you an information packet on the way out. It lists restaurants and entertainment, gives autocab and air travel information, maps of the city and surrounding area—that sort of thing.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to offer you a full-time guide. I’m afraid we’re a little short-handed.”

  “That’s okay,” Caine said magnanimously. The last thing he wanted was an official baby-sitter. “Doesn’t look like I’ll have much use for one, anyway.”

  “What are you going to do?” Galway asked as they left the room and walked down the hallway toward the elevators.

  Caine spoke slowly, as if he hadn’t already thought it all out. “I hate for the trip to be a complete waste—you wouldn’t believe what the ticket cost. Maybe I can talk to some of the people in Capstone who lived through the war. I wasn’t going to do that until I had the background researched, but….” He shrugged, then frowned. “I seem to remember that there was some hotshot general or admiral on Plinry when the war ended, but I don’t recall his name. You know who I mean?”

  Galway frowned back. “Umm. Maybe you mean General Lepkowski? He was in command of this sector when it fell.”

  “Could be. I remember thinking the name was Vladimirian sounding.”

  “Seems to me Lepkowski was from Vladimir, come to think of it. But I’m afraid you’re out of luck again—he died during the war.”

  Caine’s stomach knotted. “You sure?” he asked as casually as possible.

  “Yes. He was caught in his command center when the Groundfire attack demolished it, or so the story goes.” Galway paused, as if thinking. “I don’t know anyone else off hand who might have the kind of information you’re looking for. A lot of people here lived through the war—I did, myself—but none of them knew much about the big picture.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll look some of them up anyway.” For the first time Caine noticed a slight tightness in his chest and a faint rasping in his voice. “I should be able to get something out of it—the little guy’s point of view, maybe.”

  “What’s wrong with your voice?” Galway asked abruptly. His hand, which had been reaching for the elevator call button, moved instead to a supportive grip on Caine’s arm, and he frowned into the other’s face.

  “I don’t know.” The rasp was getting louder, and the first stabs of pain were beginning to intrude on Caine’s breathing.

  “I do.” Still holding Caine’s arm, the prefect half led, half dragged him to a refreshment station at the end of the corridor. With one hand he dialed for a cup of water; with the other he deftly reached into Caine’s jacket pocket and pulled out the vial of pills. Handing Caine the water, he glanced at the vial’s label and tapped two of the capsules into his hand. “Take these,” he ordered.

  Caine did so. He very much wanted to sit down, but there were no chairs or benches in the hallway and Galway didn’t seem inclined to help him into one of the nearby offices. Fortunately, though, the medicine worked fast, and within a few minutes he was able to let go of Galway’s arm. “I’m okay now,” he nodded, taking an experimental breath. The pain was gone, the rasping nearly so. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.
” He handed Caine the vial. “I’d assumed you’d taken your medicine before landing, or I would’ve had you do it when you went through customs. I presume you’ll be less forgetful in the future.”

  “You bet,” Caine assured him. “What the hell was that, anyway?”

  “Tormatyse asthma. Affects about three percent of the offworlders that come here. It’s caused by something in the air—I’m not sure what—but it’s pretty harmless as long as you take a daily dose of histrophyne. You feel ready to travel yet?”

  “Sure.”

  Galway led the way back to the elevators, and minutes later Caine was standing by the building’s main entrance, a thick packet in his hand. “Your luggage should already be in your hotel room,” Galway told him. “We only have one guest hotel in the Hub—the Coronet—so I took the liberty of sending your things there.”

  “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.

  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 café of sorts, from which emanated the sound of con
versation 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’?”