"Sure—everything," Jensen said agreeably. Sorting through the maps he found the one marked "Calarand" and opened it. "Why don't you start by telling me what exactly my friends did to Calarand yesterday?"
The nunchaku was a silent blur wrapping itself like half a cocoon around him. Lathe kept his gaze focused beyond the flail, controlling its motion solely through the feel in his muscles. The weapon changed hands once, twice, three times; interrupted its defensive pattern to snap out and back in whiplike motions that could crack skulls; folded itself back along the blackcollar's arm and shoulder, where it could block even a Ryqril-wielded short sword; and resumed its pattern as Lathe snatched and threw three shuriken into the targets at the far end of the shooting range.
From the door at his left came a knock. "Come in," Lathe called, breathing a little heavily as he sheathed the nunchaku.
The door opened and Bakshi looked in. "Am I interrupting?"
Lathe shook his head. "Come on in."
The Argentian did so, closing the door behind him. "Skyler said I'd find you here. How's the shoulder?"
"Good as new." Lathe stretched his arms forward experimentally. "Just a little tightness where the burn line was. I'd forgotten what good stuff that salve is—we ran out of it on Plinry ages ago." He gestured toward the mats behind them. "If you came to work out I can prove how fit I am."
Bakshi smiled and shook his head. "Perhaps later." He paused. "Speaking of workouts, I've been talking to Fuess about your little foray yesterday. I get the impression you weren't entirely satisfied with his performance."
"Umph." Turning, Lathe set off down the range to retrieve his shuriken. "He said that?"
"Not in so many words." Bakshi fell into step beside him. "I'd like to hear your evaluation of him."
"All right. Yes, I was disappointed. His fighting skills aren't up to what I would consider blackcollar level. More importantly, he was a rotten soldier. He wanted to debate every other order, and even when he obeyed me it was only grudgingly. I presume I don't have to explain the need for a smooth command structure to you, do I?"
"No." They'd reached the targets now, heavy wooden boards pockmarked with hundreds of tiny pits that almost obliterated the traditional human-figure outlines painted there. Each of Lathe's shuriken had hit one of the outlines directly in the throat. Extracting one of the stars, Bakshi turned it idly in his hand. "You're a good marksman."
Lathe grunted as he retrieved the other two stars. "Not really. Most of my men are at least as good as I am."
"Then your men are extraordinary," Bakshi said, "or else Plinry was lucky. The Ryqril must not have used nerve gases on you."
Lathe gave him a hard look. "No, they didn't do much of that. Most of us didn't arrive until the ground war had begun, when they had too many of their own people down for indiscriminate use of gases. But don't ever suggest again that Plinry was lucky because of it."
Bakshi ducked his head briefly. "The groundfire attack; yes. I apologize. I guess they learned their lesson on you; here they pounded us into submission from space so they wouldn't have to use it again. My point was that many of our blackcollars were permanently affected by one of the gases. We don't talk about it much; it's still too painful a memory."
"Affected how? Slowed reflexes?"
"Yes, from light neural damage. You've seen it before?"
"One or two cases." Someone might have mentioned Dodds. "Is that why none of you can fight?"
Bakshi smiled bitterly. "Oh, we can fight, all right. We didn't get your thirty-year vacation, you know. But, yes, that's why Fuess and the others aren't as good at hand-to-hand combat anymore. And as for the other problem—" He hesitated. "I think maybe they resent the fact that you're still as good as you always were. As they were once."
Lathe extended a hand, and Bakshi dropped the last shuriken into it. "I suggest you have a talk with them," he told the Argentian. "We're not here to show up anyone. The time for medals and glory ended when the TDE surrendered. If your people can't accept that, then pack them off somewhere where they won't be in our way."
"I'll tell them." Bakshi smiled wryly as the two blackcollars turned and started back toward the door. "We haven't had to fight this kind of war for quite a while. But we'll get the hang of it." He paused abruptly, brow furrowing. "Someone's coming," he murmured.
Lathe had also heard the running footsteps. Speeding up to a fast walk, he headed for the door, automatically reaching for a shuriken. Bakshi, he noted peripherally, was matching his pace but drifting to the side with a blackcollar's instinctive aversion to bunching up. They were five paces from the door when someone pounded on the panel and charged in.
It was Jeremiah Dan, clutching a scrawled note. "They've found Jensen!" he announced excitedly, waving the paper.
"Where is he?" Bakshi asked as Lathe snatched the note.
"Millaire," Dan told him, catching his breath and slowly regaining his usual professorial bearing. "They picked him up along the Hemoth River this morning."
Lathe glanced up. "Are the collies still checking traffic in and out of the city?"
"Probably, but there are ways to sneak out, if you want to go down there and get him," Dan said. "Greenstein suggested you might want to do that."
"So his people can stay clear of Calarand, in other words," Bakshi commented.
"Who's Greenstein?" Lathe asked.
"Uri Greenstein's head of our southern division," Dan said. "You saw him at our first meeting, but you weren't introduced."
"This message come in by secure phone?"
"Yes, directly to me. Commando Jensen said to tell you that the moon children agree with your calculations."
Lathe nodded; it was the code phrase they'd set up. "How far is Millaire?"
"About seven hundred klicks southwest of here," Bakshi said. "It should be a relatively safe drive if you want to go."
Lathe hesitated. He definitely wanted Jensen in Calarand... and the timing presented unexpected possibilities. "All right," he said. "I'll need two cars—can I get them right away?"
"Now?" Dan glanced at his watch. "It's almost twenty o'clock."
"There's no curfew, is there?"
"No. But it's a long trip and it's supposed to thunderstorm tonight."
"My men don't melt. Two cars, and we could use a guide."
"Take two of my blackcollars," Bakshi offered. "I promise they'll behave this time."
"Well...." Unfortunately, Lathe couldn't think of a good reason to say no. "Okay, but we'll only need one. The second car can follow the first."
"Risky," Dan said doubtfully. "What if they get lost?"
"They won't. Just make sure both cars have lots of maps." He looked at Bakshi. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get my men ready."
"One other thing," Dan called after him. "We've got definite word now that the quizlers are preparing Cerbe Prison for a major influx of new prisoners."
"Good. I'll get the details from you later. Right now, just get me those cars."
He had a workable plan ready by the time he reached the blackcollars' room. Pushing through the door, he gestured to Mordecai—who, as usual, was standing guard—and turned to the three men sitting around the table. "Free time's over," he announced. "Radix found Jensen."