"He was still in the control room when the blast went off, wasn't he."
Skyler hesitated, then nodded. "We didn't have enough power to just toss in a bomb and run. The explosives had to be carefully placed against the support. There was only a slim chance he'd be able to set them and get out... and he would've used his tingler if he'd made it." The big blackcollar paused. "I'm sorry, Jensen. He wouldn't let me take his place."
"You should have left me here."
"He wouldn't have agreed to that, either."
"I know." Jensen stumbled a bit as they topped the rubble at the broken end of the hall, but Skyler's arm around his waist kept him upright. Outside, there was an incredible amount of broken building material littering a courtyard sort of place. A wall forming the outer edge of the courtyard had been breached in at least three places; it was toward one of these that Skyler led him. "What about collie guards?" he asked.
"If Novak timed it as he planned, most of them were probably in the section that collapsed. Watch your step," he added as Jensen again stumbled. "We need to get out of here before the collies pull whatever's left of their force together. With luck all this junk cleared out the mines for us—if neither of us sprains an ankle we should make it to the car all right."
Jensen nodded. The walk was rapidly draining his last reserves of strength, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. "Skyler. Galway told me there were four spies in Radix—said they'd fooled a blackcollar here."
"All four, huh?" Skyler said grimly. "Somehow, I'm not surprised."
"I want to kill them."
There was a short pause. "We'll get them—don't worry. That was Galway, then," he added, as if wanting to change the subject. "I thought I was seeing things. Did I hear you tell me not to kill him, incidentally?"
Hazy spots were starting to flicker across Jensen's vision. "Yes," he said, his voice fading away into the distance. "It was... something I owed... Plinry."
The last thing he knew before sliding into the darkness was the feel of Skyler's arm around his waist.
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.