Blackcollar: The Backlash Mission

by Timothy Zahn

  Mordecai pursed his lips, searching his memory. No, that was probably unlikely—and if the thing was really being that thorough, it was doing so damn quickly. Odds were good that it was only checking the cards, and that would be easy enough to handle.

  Presumably. He'd find out for sure in a minute.

  The duty officer glanced up as he entered, nodded briefly, and returned his attention to his display.

  Mordecai nodded in return and strode briskly past him toward the rear door. Chances were good that Security men from both day and night shifts had been called up for this operation, and if the blackcollar behaved as if he belonged here anyone he met would probably assume the unfamiliar face simply belonged to someone on another crew.

  Assuming, of course, that they hadn't paid close attention to the photos Galway had surely circulated.

  The console by the door was indeed as simple as he'd hoped, apparently nothing more than a scan screen and a reset button. But there was always the potential for surprises. Palming a shuriken in his free hand, he pressed his stolen ID against the screen and held his breath.

  There was a quiet beep, and the door ahead opened—and as he started through he noticed a display that hadn't been visible from the car outside. Three columns of names filled the screen, their positions shifting subtly as one more was added.

  Which meant he'd been worried about nothing. Safe, fat, and sassy here in the middle of Athena, the Security bigtops evidently hadn't even considered the possibility of unauthorized entry. All they cared about was knowing who was on duty and available in the building and who wasn't.

  Smiling tightly, Mordecai stepped through the door. So much for both enemy preparedness and blackcollar overcaution.

  Beyond the door, a handful of people moved briskly along on unknown errands. Glancing once at his watch, Mordecai joined them, matching their businesslike air as best he could.

  —

  The situation room was considerably larger than Pittman had expected it to be, and for a long minute he just stood in the lounge doorway and gazed around at it. Four men were currently on duty, splitting their attention between a large overview screen of Denver, a bank of screens that looked to be from mobile units, a long panel that evidently handled voice-only communications from the field, and a second bank of screens that showed nothing but hallways and small rooms.

  Hallways, small rooms, and a fair number of Security uniforms.

  "You got the general's permission to be here?" one of the Security men said as Pittman moved toward the latter bank of displays.

  Pittman nodded toward the screens. "That the detention level?" he asked.

  "Yeah," the other said briefly, getting up and walking over to him. "Let's see your authorization."

  "I don't have any, but Galway said I could wait in the lounge next door," Pittman said, his attention still on the displays. "You keeping a good eye on those guys?"

  The Security man snorted. "Oh—right. You're Postern, aren't you? The informer."

  Pittman's jaw tightened momentarily. He was getting tired of the contempt that always seemed to accompany that identification. "Yes," he acknowledged shortly. "You haven't answered my question."

  One of the other officers snickered, swiveling his chair lazily toward Pittman. "Worried they'll come down and pay you a visit, are you? Maybe you should go back to the lounge and hide under the couch."

  Pittman sent a cold look in his direction, then turned back to the original speaker. "Well?"

  The Security man sighed. "Look, kid, there's really nothing to worry about. Your friends are harmless—they've been searched, they're surrounded by guards, and in a few minutes they'll all be locked away. I don't care how good blackcollars are, they can't be very dangerous inside little steel cubes."

  "Hey!" one of the others called from the first display bank. "They've remote-forced the ambulance down—no one in it."

  "Oh, hell," one of the others murmured. "Quinn's not going to like this one."

  "Get Marsala and Abrams tied in," Pittman's challenger instructed, striding over to the display bank and frowning at one of the screens. "We'll want a fast diagnostic telemetry set up, see if the thing's been on autopilot since leaving or whether someone could have bailed out en route."

  "Oh, come on," a third man put in, joining the others. "We've had it under surveillance practically the whole time."

  The discussion continued, and for the moment Pittman was forgotten. Giving the detention display bank one final scan, he returned to the lounge, closing the door behind him. As it had been since he first arrived, the room was deserted; crossing it, he slipped out the far door and headed down a hallway toward the elevator.

  Already the building was beginning to fill up as more and more Security troops filtered in from the aftermath of the capture. Pittman shared the elevator with three men in combat garb who were apparently on their way upstairs after checking their heavy weapons into the building's armory. All three gave Pittman a quick once-over, and though they remained silent he could sense that they knew who he was. Gritting his teeth, he got off at ground level, letting them continue to the fourth-floor barracks on their own.

  Six heavily armed men were waiting by the elevators, laser rifles slung over their shoulders, obviously headed for the armory. Pittman gave them a wide berth, eying the rifles longingly, and began looking around for the building's from entrance. It turned out to be only a single turn and a dozen meters ahead, and was as secure-looking as he had expected. A small display set into the wall beside the door showed the view from the duty officer's desk; a single Security man was briefly visible as he passed the desk and headed for the door. No one else was in sight; all seemed perfectly quiet.

  For a moment Pittman paused, wondering if he ought to head out into the lobby for a moment and talk to the desk officer. But everything appeared to be adequately under control out there. Which meant it was now time for the real test: to find out just how secure Quinn's fifth-floor cells really were. Turning, he headed back toward the elevators.

  —

  Elevators, and the lobbies where people gathered to wait for them, had a unique sound profile about them, and it was child's play to recognize that the place he sought was just down the hall from the entrance door. Senses alert, Mordecai headed off in the proper direction... but he'd barely taken five steps when he realized that the clothing of the man walking away ahead of him was familiar. The clothing, as well as the posture and the walk.

  Pittman.

  The blackcollar's lip twitched in a grim smile as he slowed his pace to avoid overtaking. Pittman didn't turn around, but continued around the next corner without pausing. A group of armed Security men were waiting for the elevator there, and for a moment Mordecai considered jumping them and getting himself a little extra firepower. But prudence won out, and instead he took up a casual position against the wall near the corner, staying well back from the others. Hanging his head in a posture of thought that would both discourage idle conversation and mask his features a bit, he waited.

  Two of the elevators arrived almost simultaneously. "Going up?" Pittman called into the one nearest him. "I need to get to four."

  "It's headed down, stupid—read the arrow," one of the armed Security men growled at him before anyone inside could reply. Shouldering past Pittman, he and the other four stepped into the car. The door closed; muttering something under his breath, Pittman stepped into the other elevator. Mordecai waited until it, too, was on its way before moving forward and punching the up button. He didn't know exactly where Pittman was headed, but odds were that it was somewhere he wanted to be, too.

  Another elevator arrived within the minute, and he stepped inside with the two Security men already there. The fourth-level button had been pushed; stepping to a back corner, the blackcollar rubbed his lip thoughtfully and began the quiet psychological preparation for combat.

  The door opened. He let the others leave first, then stepped out himself and looked around... and realized with a
shock that he'd walked into a massive trap.

  Combat reflexes flared; but even as his hand twitched toward his concealed nunchaku his brain caught up with that first impression and he noticed that the dozen gray-green uniforms weren't converging on him—were not, in fact, even paying any attention to him. Carefully, he let his hand drop back to his side and gave the bustling Security men another, closer, look. Casual conversations, body language that spoke of unconcern.

  Level four was a Security barracks.

  Great. Just great. Well, it could have been worse. Licking his lips briefly, the blackcollar tried to look inconspicuous as he looked around for Pittman. The other wasn't hard to find, striding down the hall to Mordecai's right as if he owned the place. The blackcollar set off after him, again making sure not to get too close.

  The hall was a long one, and at its end was a desk with a Security duty officer and—surprisingly—a single elevator. The implications were clear enough... and with almost a sense of relief Mordecai realized the difficult part was over and the fighting was about to begin. The only way to get to Lathe and the others would be via that elevator—and the ID machine he could see on the duty officer's desk was sure as hell not going to be simply taking roll call.

  He picked up his pace, and was within earshot when Pittman reached the desk. "I want to go up and see General Quinn," the younger man announced to the duty officer. "Do I just get in the elevator there, or do you need to check me through first?"

  "Neither," the Security man said tartly. "Only authorized personnel are allowed on the detention level, and you're not one of them."

  "That's ridiculous," Pittman said. "Galway said I could come up here if I wanted to—"

  "Galway's not in charge here, Postern—and if I were you, I wouldn't keep using his name to try and slide your way into places where you're not wanted."

  "Now look, you—"

  Quietly, Mordecai slipped past the argument and gave the elevator door a quick once-over. Armored, certainly, and with no visible controls. Probably operated from the duty desk after IDs and authorizations had been properly checked. The blackcollar turned back, scanning the desk for anything that looked like a panel; saw a touch plate by the officer's right knee—

  "Hey!" the desk man half turned to glare at Mordecai. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back here and check through—"

  And abruptly recognition flared in his eyes. "My God—" he gasped.

  Mordecai lifted his eyes a fraction, caught Pittman's.

  And the younger man leaned over the desk to jab stiffened fingers into the Security man's throat.

  With a strangled choke the officer slumped in his seat. Glancing over Pittman's shoulder, Mordecai stepped to the stunned man's side. "ID," he said quietly to Pittman. "Upper left pocket."

  "Any reaction?" Pittman asked as his fingers dug into the pocket and emerged with the card.

  "Not yet," Mordecai said, still watching over the other's shoulder. But that wouldn't last long, he knew. At the moment Pittman's body was hiding the duty officer from view of the milling Security men farther down the hall, but that would change as soon as they made for the elevator. "This is the only way to the cells?"

  Pittman nodded. He had the ID pressed against the reader screen now and was trying to maneuver the officer's hand onto the fingerprint plate. "The only monitor station I know of is down in the situation room, and it's not getting that much attention."

  Mordecai grunted. The officer, his wind starting to come back, was attempting to struggle. The blackcollar took a moment to punch him at the base of the skull and he went limp again. "We'll be taking out the cameras right away, anyway. You have your battle-hood and gloves?"

  Pittman grimaced. "No—I couldn't come up with a good enough reason to keep them. They may be up where the others' gear is stored, though, in a room just down the hall from the elevator. I saw some of the stuff being put away on the monitors when I was downstairs."

  "Any real firepower up there, or just paral-dart guns?"

  "All I saw the guards carrying was the latter, but that room looked like it doubled as a small armory.

  Sorry, but I couldn't find a quiet way into the big one downstairs."

  "We wouldn't have wanted a laser in the elevator, anyway—elevators and stairwells have the nasty habit of carrying resonance detonators for the purpose of destroying captured weapons.

  Okay—ready?"

  "Ready."

  Pittman pushed the read button, holding the officer's hand steady on the plate. Simultaneously, Mordecai heaved the man straight up out of his chair, turning the head to face the retina scanner.

  Bracing the limp body against his chest, he pried open the eyelids with thumb and forefinger and held his breath.

  There was a beep, and something that sounded like a relay clicking. "Elevator," Mordecai murmured, dropping the officer back into his chair and reaching for the touch plate under the desktop. Behind him, the doors slid open; a moment later they closed again with both men aboard.

  "How long?" Pittman asked. There was a slight quaver in his voice—the first Mordecai had heard since this whole thing started.

  "Till they catch on?" The blackcollar shrugged, digging out his spare shuriken pouch and pressing it into the youth's hand. "Not very. That's why your first job upstairs will be to disable the elevator.

  Quietly, if possible—I'd like a few minutes to get the lay of the land before I hit the place."

  "I'll try."

  The doors opened, and Mordecai strode out, eyes darting everywhere. The long hallway dead-ended at the elevator, he saw, a duty desk like the one downstairs positioned a few meters in front of it. A

  potentially good spot to defend the elevator from, once the officer seated there was eliminated.

  Ahead, several doors opened out into the hallway, one of them with the heavy look of armor reinforcement. Beside it was another guard station; and with a rush of adrenaline-fueled recklessness, the blackcollar passed the duty desk and stepped boldly up to the Security man at the armory. "You got the blackcollar equipment inside?" he asked gruffly.

  "Yeah," the other said, looking up.

  "Get it all out, fast," Mordecai growled, half turning to peer down the hall. "We've got a report that some of the nunchaku are loaded with explosives—the general wants 'em out of there before they blow and take the whole armory out."

  "Krij it—weren't the damn things bomb-sniffed?" the other muttered, reaching under his desk. But even as he lowered his eyes, his brain caught up with him and his expression twitched... and when his hand came back into sight it was holding a paral-dart pistol. "All right, you—"

  Spinning a hundred and eighty degrees, Mordecai bent at the waist and snapped his right foot out in a back kick toward the other's head. The pistol went off with the crack of compressed air, the needles washing over Mordecai's back and legs. He spun back around, hand poised to grab the gun if necessary, but between the kick and the ricochets from Mordecai's flexarmor, the officer was down for the duration.

  And down the hall, the alarms began blaring.

  "Damn," Mordecai muttered as he leaped over the desk. From the elevator end of the hall there was a shout, and he glanced over to see the duty officer collapse over his desk, a shuriken protruding from his temple. Ignoring the sounds starting to come from the other end of the hall, Mordecai snatched his battle-hood and gloves from his tunic and got them on, studying the controls for the armory door as he did so. It looked like the same system as they'd found downstairs at the elevator, with a proper ID check all that was required for access.

  At least until someone downstairs sealed the door by remote control.

  A splatter of needles bounced off his goggles and battle-hood, and he looked up to see four Security men racing like kamikazes directly toward him. "Cameras!" he snapped.

  "Already taken out," Pittman shouted from behind him.

  "Good," Mordecai called back. "Get over here when it's clear." A new wave of needles washed over
him, and with a convulsive leap, the blackcollar cleared the desk and landed in front of his attackers, nunchaku lashing out.

  Three more seconds and the men were scattered broken around him. Someone down the hall stepped imprudently into view and started shooting. Mordecai sent him crashing to the floor with a spinning shuriken as Pittman slid to cover at the desk behind him. "I've got the elevator locked up here," the youth reported, breathing a bit heavily. "I got both cameras I could see pointed this direction."

  "Good." Mordecai jerked his head toward the armory door. "Same trick as downstairs—get busy. I'll try to keep the collies away from you while I spring the others."

  "Right. Good luck."

  "You too." Nunchaku and shuriken at the ready, Mordecai sprinted down the hallway.

  Chapter 27

  Hatred, Lathe and the others had continually warned their trainees, was a subtle poison that did the hater more harm than it did his victim. Caine knew that, agreed with the philosophy behind it... and yet, when it came down to the wire, he found all the logic in the universe didn't do him a damn bit of good.

  He hated General Quinn. Hated the man with a passion. And more than that, felt good about hating him.

  It wasn't just the fact that the general had beaten them—wasn't even the fact that he'd beaten them so decisively. Instead, it was the increasingly apparent fact that the bastard was determined to gloat over his victory.

  Somehow, Caine had always expected to be treated with some measure of respect when he finally lost to the enemy. Quinn, obviously, was determined not to give him even that much.

  Was in fact even going out of his way to twist the knife. Seated across the conference room from Caine and three of the blackcollars, an uncomfortable-looking Galway beside him, he turned his monologue once again to the subject he'd already talked to death: Pittman and his treachery.

  "He wasn't just recently suborned, you know," the general said, crossing his legs casually as he sent his gaze around at the four prisoners facing him. "He's been your double agent for, what, six months now, Galway?"