James Axler – Rat King

maintenance men was washing the floor with an old, almost bald mop. Suds and

water were gathered to one side of the corridor, and Doc contrived to stumble

away from Panner and slip on the soapy water.

He fell in a manner that appeared to Murphy and Panner to be clumsy, but was in

fact a perfect pratfall. Spinning on his heel so that he reversed position and

faced the two sec personnel, Doc fell backward. Although it would seem that he

was out of control, both J.B. and Ryan noted that the old man relaxed his

muscles, spiraling to the concrete floor with a floppiness that protected him

from breaking bones.

He also knew exactly the way in which he would land. He contrived to get the

lion’s-head walking stick on one side of his body, shielding it from the view of

the sec corps.

Panner was laughing so hard that her flabby jowls wobbled, and her eyes ran with

tears.

“What are we worried about, Sarj? These outsider scum are no danger. This old

fucker can’t even stay on his feet!”

Even the otherwise taciturn Murphy stopped scowling long enough to crack a grin.

Panner stepped forward, her Heckler & Koch blaster now lowered to the concrete

floor, and idly prodded the prone Doc with her combat boot.

“C’mon, get up before I chill you and mess the floor, you old fart.”

With a speed that would seem surprising for his age, Doc flicked his right arm

from the position over his body where he had been grasping the hilt of his

stick. Instead of ebony, a rapier-thin double-edged blade of the finest Toledo

steel whistled through the air, catching the light from overhead.

It would have mesmerized Panner if she’d had the chance to see the light

reflected. However, by the time this happened, she had already dropped her

blaster and was clutching at the blood pumping from her torn throat. With the

most delicate twist of his wrist, Doc had stroked back and forth, the blade

ripping at the exposed area of flesh between Panner’s chin and the beginning of

her combat armored vest.

” ‘Manners maketh the man.’ I would venture to suggest that bad manners can be

an undoing,” Doc murmured.

The blade had cut through her carotid artery, ripped tendon, fat and muscle and

severed her jugular. It was a perfectly judged stroke, avoiding jarring the

blade on bone and throwing the timing of the attack. Blood spilled from her

mouth, open in an “O” of surprise. It pumped over and between her fingers,

spilling down her combat vest and covering the newly washed floor. It also

splashed onto Doc, already climbing to his feet with a limber spring that was

spurred on by an adrenaline rush.

Murphy dropped his own blaster, barrel to the floor, unable to believe his own

eyes. Panner was his second-in-command, his loyal lieutenant. She had the

instincts of a killer, and yet an old man had chilled her in front of his eyes.

Furthermore he couldn’t work out where the blade had come from.

In slow motion he watched her blaster fall toward the floor.

Before it had a chance to touch the concrete, J.B. sprang toward it and caught

it, his forward momentum carrying him into a roll, which pulled up painfully

short against the wall of the corridor. The Armorer grunted as the blow knocked

the air from his lungs, but regardless he pulled himself into a sitting

position. The Heckler & Koch was positioned in his hands, finger taut on the

trigger, directed at Murphy’s head. The Armorer would have preferred a body

shot, but knew it would be useless with the combat vest. At this range it

wouldn’t stop a burst of fire fatally injuring the sec man, but it could slow

his death enough for him to chill his opponent.

J.B.’s snap aim wasn’t to be tested. Murphy had allowed his full attention to be

directed toward the Armorer, and hadn’t noticed Ryan step forward just two

paces.

That was all it needed. The one-eyed man unfurled the scarf from around his

neck, wrapping one end around his right hand. The weighted end swung down