"Right decent of you," the older man said dryly. "But this here's our home, not yours. You're the one who gets to move on if someone's gotta get goin'."
Abruptly, his eyes hardened. "Unless you want to come clean and tell us who you really are," he warned.
"And I mean right now." And on the last word, he let go his grip on the younger man's rifle.
And before Flynn could react, the barrel finished its downward swing to land with a slap in the younger man's left hand.
Pointed directly at Flynn's face.
Flynn dropped into a crouch, twisting at his knees and waist as he fell, using the momentum of his corkscrew spin for extra power as he whipped the knife around and threw it at the gunman. At the last instant he gave the weapon just enough extra torque for an additional half turn, and as he completed his spin he saw it slam hilt first against the younger man's forehead. The other's gun swung wildly off target as he staggered a couple of steps back, and Flynn shifted his attention to the other man.
He was still standing motionless, apparently frozen in place by Flynn's unexpected counterattack, his own gun still propped against his shoulder. Leaping back to his feet, Flynn shifted his nunchaku to his right hand and charged, hoping he could cover the distance before either man recovered enough for another attack.
But he was too late. The younger man was tougher than he looked; and even as the Lab gave out a startled yip and laid his ears back he got his gun back under control. Once again the weapon swung to point at Flynn.
And with the flat crack of stone on metal, the gun leapt sideways out of his hands.
"That'll do, gentlemen," a croaking voice came seemingly from nowhere. Even knowing who it was, it still took Flynn a second to recognize the voice as Jensen's. There was a swish of branches, and Jensen appeared from beneath the tree, his slingshot cocked and ready. "Put the gun on the ground," he continued, pointing the weapon at the older man, whose rifle was still propped against his shoulder.
"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."