Timothy Zahn - Blackcollar - The Blackcollar

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.

The hostility in the conference room hit Caine like a heat wave as he and Lathe crossed to their places at the table. Every eye was on them, every expression icy cold. Caine threw a quick glance at Lathe's face as they sat down, but if the comsquare knew the reason for this unexpected summons he was hiding it well. Across the table, the seats usually occupied by Bakshi's four blackcollars were empty.

Tremayne didn't waste any time with preliminaries. "Comsquare Lathe, can you account for the whereabouts of your men between twenty-one o'clock and midnight last night?"

"Not really," Lathe replied, "but there's no need to. I'm the one who ordered them killed."

The tension in the room seemed to crack with surprise, then instantly reform into an even denser mass. "Ordered who killed?" Caine asked, his stomach tightening.

"Fuess, McKitterick, and Couturie," Tremayne answered coldly. "And I've heard that Valentine didn't return with Skyler and Jensen this morning."

"That's right, he didn't." Lathe's voice was calm, but with an undertone of bitterness. "Neither did Novak. Valentine and the other three were responsible for his death."

"How do you figure that?" Miles Cameron snapped.

"They were government spies."

The stunned silence that greeted that statement lasted only a second before a babble of incredulous comments broke out. Through it one voice cut like a knife: "What's your proof?"

Lathe turned to face Faye Picciano. "I have no hard evidence, if that's what you want. If you had the facilities here a biochemist could show that none of them had ever been treated with the Backlash drug. But I can give you more indirect evidence."

"Such as?" Faye's voice was cool but, unlike some of the others, she seemed willing to hear him out.

"Such as their loud hatred for the Ryqril and the government. Bakshi here doesn't show that kind of emotional fire; neither do my men. Blackcollars that do can't survive a war of attrition—they burn out far too quickly. But that was the stereotypical blackcollar personality all of you expected—correct me if I'm wrong—so that's the camouflage they wore for you."

Caine tore his gaze from Lathe's face long enough to evaluate the others' expressions. They were still hostile, but here and there slightly creased foreheads indicated Lathe's words had started some of them thinking. For himself, Caine felt like all the props had been knocked out from under him.

"Skyler also brought Valentine's dragonhead ring back," Lathe continued, "and I can show you it's been altered to match his assumed rank of commando, whereas it originally must have belonged to a higher-ranking officer. And finally, the three that Mordecai killed attacked him first, instead of the other way around."

"Did them a lot of good, didn't it?" Tremayne said, throwing a glare over Caine's shoulder to where Mordecai and Kwon waited quietly by the door. "McKitterick took a throwing star in the throat, Couturie had a broken neck, and Fuess had both lungs collapsed and bone splinters in his heart. I don't even see you limping."

Mordecai remained silent. "The point remains," Lathe said, "that real blackcollars wouldn't have attacked in the first place. They could have cleared themselves easily."

"How?" Cameron growled. "Their word against yours?"

"Use your head, Miles," Bakshi spoke up unexpectedly.

"We all went to the same training center on Centauri A. There are a thousand little things about the people and procedures there that any true blackcollar would know."

The attention of the group turned abruptly to Bakshi.

"Are you saying Lathe's right?" Tremayne asked, clearly surprised.

"I don't know for sure—and any chance of cross-examining them is gone now."

"Very conveniently," Cameron added with heavy sarcasm.

"But," Bakshi continued doggedly, "if Lathe is right it would explain all the raids that have gone sour over the years."

"But even if they weren't real blackcollars it doesn't necessarily follow that they were spies," Cameron persisted.

"You don't even believe that one yourself," Faye scoffed. "What else would they be?"

"Would I be correct in assuming you brought the four of them into Radix, Cameron?" Lathe put in.

Cameron reddened. "What's that supposed to mean?"