The Blackcollar

CHAPTER 28

Mordecai found the proper door and paused for a moment outside it, listening. Faint voices were audible; despite the late hour, the room's occupants were still awake. Throwing one last glance down the deserted hallway, he tapped gently on the door.

It opened a few seconds later. "Mordecai!" Fuess said, his expression running through surprise to welcome. "Well; come in."

Mordecai brushed past him, letting the Argentian close the door, and gave the room a fast once-over. Fairly large and nicely furnished, he decided. Against opposite walls were two sets of bunk beds, each with a double-sized military locker at its foot. In the center was an oval table; sitting on opposite sides, playing cards still in their hands, were McKitterick and Couturie.

"Hello." Couturie nodded at Mordecai, laying his cards down and getting to his feet. His dragonhead ring glinted with the movement. "Can I get you a drink?"

Mordecai shook his head. "No. This isn't a social call."

Fuess came around from behind him to stand behind McKitterick. "What can we do for you, then?" he asked.

"Lathe just got a call from a public phone a few klicks outside Millaire. It was Skyler. He had Jensen with him."

They were good, all right. Not a flicker of surprise crossed any of their faces, and Fuess's comment was immediate and enthusiastic. "They got him out? Great! When're they due back?"

"Soon," Mordecai told him. "There were casualties—Novak and Valentine both."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Fuess's face, quickly vanishing. "Damn stinking quizlers," he growled.

Mordecai shook his head. "Don't blame them for Valentine's death. Skyler had him executed—as a traitor."

"What?" Fuess and Couturie exclaimed together. McKitterick merely looked stunned.

"You heard me. Your friend was a collie spy."

"That's ridiculous!" Couturie snorted. "He was blackcollar!"

Mordecai regarded the indignant Argentian. "Did you serve with him in the war? Or personally know anyone who did?"

Couturie hesitated at the edge of the trap. "Well... no. But I've heard him describe operations that I know took place."

"So what? I can describe some operations of the Crimean War back on Earth."

"Are you implying," Fuess said slowly, "that Valentine wasn't a blackcollar at all?"

"Very good. But several years late in coming. Why didn't you ever suspect him before?"

No look passed between them; but almost as if on signal Fuess and Couturie began a nearly imperceptible movement away from their respective sides of the table. For Mordecai it was as good as an admission of guilt: they'd traced his line of questioning to its logical conclusion and were moving to flank him. "You make it sound easy to tell a fraud from a true blackcollar who's suffered neural damage," McKitterick said, his tone halfway between hostile and injured. "I understand your own man Dodds got nailed by those gases—why wasn't he killed?"

"Because he wasn't a spy like Valentine was... or you three are."

Their lack of facial reaction was simply more proof that they'd anticipated this conclusion. "You're insane," Fuess declared. "Stark raving insane. Where do you get off making an unwarranted accusation like that?"

Mordecai eyed him. "If I were you, I'd think up a better defense than my insanity. I've seen you in action, remember? It takes more than Backlash reflexes to make a blackcollar—a sense of teamwork and respect for authority, for example."

"So I'm not the perfect blackcollar. Is that a crime?"

"And what about us?" McKitterick added quietly. He was still sitting with his legs under the table, and for a moment Mordecai wondered about him. Was he in fact innocent, or had he merely missed the signal to prepare for action? "You've hardly even seen Couturie or me except at tactical group meetings—certainly never in a combat situation. How can you presume to judge us?"

Mordecai's lip twitched in a tight smile. "Cutting yourselves loose from the condemned so soon? The years haven't built up much loyalty, have they."

"Our loyalty is with Radix, where it's always been," Couturie told him. He took a step around the curve of the table as if heading toward Fuess, a move that brought him closer to Mordecai and farther to the blackcollar's side. "And if Fuess is a traitor—"

"Wait a second," Fuess objected, panic filtering into his voice. "You're going to take his word—"

Again, there was no visible signal; but halfway through Fuess's sentence they launched their attack. From his chair McKitterick heaved the table toward Mordecai; simultaneously, Fuess and Couturie leaped in to flank the blackcollar. It was as well-coordinated an action as Mordecai had ever seen, and against an average blackcollar it might have had a chance.

But he was Mordecai, and no other fight could ever have prepared them for him. Even as the table came crashing over, the blackcollar took a swift step to his right, moving directly into Fuess's attack and out of range of Couturie's. Fuess was ready; his foot snapped out in a side kick toward Mordecai's knee and his hands flashed in a backfist-reverse punch combination toward head and abdomen. Mordecai didn't even bother to block the attacks, but merely turned and bent the few centimeters necessary to send them flying past his body. His own counterattack was more effective: spinning a hundred eighty degrees, he sent a reverse kick into Fuess's ribcage that threw him a meter backwards to smash into one of the lockers. Mordecai came out of the kick facing the center of the room again; and even as Fuess collapsed to the floor Couturie caught up with him.

He came in low, his right hand flashing claw-fashion toward Mordecai's eyes as his right foot swept horizontally in an effort to kick the blackcollar's legs out from under him. Mordecai whipped his own left hand up to meet the jab, catching Couturie's wrist with his forearm and deflecting the blow over his right shoulder. The foot sweep was equally ineffective; the blackcollar's reflexes enabled him to simply jump over the swinging leg. Catching the wrist he'd deflected, Mordecai twisted it around and back, adding to Couturie's circular momentum. An instant later he had the Argentian's back to him, arm hammerlocked across his shoulder blades... and an instant after that smashed his free fist into the back of Couturie's neck with bone-breaking force.

Letting the limp body drop, Mordecai again spun to face the center of the room. Beyond the overturned table McKitterick had finally made it out of his chair and was bringing a compact pistol to bear on the blackcollar. Above the weapon his ashen face was contorted with rage and fear.

With his head and hands unprotected by flexarmor Mordecai's only option was to get out of the line of fire. Twisting to the side, he dropped into a long somersault that took him into the temporary protection of the overturned table. A sound like tearing paper came twice in rapid succession as he moved, the shots splattering into the wall and the tabletop.

With the momentum the somersault had given him, it would have been easiest either to come out the other side or to roll up into a kneeling position. Mordecai did neither, but instead brought himself to a stop and reversed direction, diving out of the shelter on the same side he'd gone in.

The gambit worked. McKitterick was starting forward, his gun pointed over the top of the table. He had just enough time for his expression to mirror knowledge of his fatal error—had nowhere near enough time to shift the gun itself—as Mordecai's shuriken flashed across the gap to bury itself into his throat. He toppled backwards to the floor and lay still.

For a moment Mordecai also lay silent, listening for running feet or curious voices. But his straining ears heard only the soft beating of his own heart. Getting to his feet, he confirmed all three Argentians were dead and retrieved his shuriken from McKitterick's body. For a moment he considered searching the room, but decided against it and instead stepped to the door.

He paused there, his hand on the knob, surveying the bodies he was leaving behind. He felt no regret, nor any sense that what he had just done was murder. It was, instead, justice.

Leaving the room, he closed the door gently behind him.