the most discerning of palates, yet suffi?cient to set one above the other. It’s so pleasant to have a visitor who appreciates the fi?ner things in life.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” Nankool replied humbly.
“You’re too kind. Now, having refreshed ourselves, I wonder if we should seek cover? The battle seems to be heating up.”
“There’s no need to worry about that,” the commandant said dismissively. “The War Mutuu will soon put things right.”
“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Oliver Batkin said, as he coasted into the throne room. “Not unless your mate has the capacity to return from the dead.”
It had taken the spy a while to locate Nankool, cut a hole large enough to pass through, and enter the building. Now, as the cyborg hovered at the center of the room, the Ramanthian produced a small weapon. An energy gun from the look of it—which he brought to bear on President Nankool. Or tried to bring to bear as Batkin fi?red a single .50-caliber round. The impact threw the aristocrat backwards and brought a delicately painted panel crashing to the fl?oor along with him.
“Nice shot,” Nankool said appreciatively, as he came to his feet. “And you are?”
“Resident Agent Oliver Batkin,” the cyborg replied formally. “Presently attached to the team sent to bring you out.”
Nankool felt his spirits soar as an assault weapon rattled outside. “That’s wonderful!”
“It’s good,” Batkin allowed cautiously, “but something short of wonderful.”
The president frowned. “Why’s that?”
“It’s a long story, Mr. President,” the spy replied wearily. “But suffi?ce it to say that the naval units that were supposed to pick us up are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were intercepted—or maybe the mission was canceled. We’re screwed either way. Still, the offi?cer in command of the mission knows his stuff, so let’s get you out of here. . . . Please keep your head down. It would be a shame to lose it at this point.”
The long, silvery space elevator pointed at Maximillian Tragg as the renegade ran for his life. The overcast had begun to burn away by then, revealing white streaks left by high-fl?ying Ramanthian fi?ghters and the blue sky beyond. The aircraft had been on standby thus far but would go into action the moment that the Confederacy Navy appeared. It was just one of many factors Tragg would be forced to take into account as he sought a way off Jericho. That was why the overseer was jogging toward the airstrip, in hopes of fi?nding a way off the planet’s surface, when a shoulder-launched missile struck a Sheen robot. The resulting shock wave was powerful enough to knock Tragg off his feet. Which was just as well, because a second rocket was already on its way, and blew the remaining android to smithereens. Sharp pieces of shrapnel fl?ew in every direction and might have killed the human had he been standing.
Watkins felt a sense of satisfaction as he dropped the launcher and began to advance on his intended victim. Two of the silvery remotes continued to hover above and behind Tragg, but the Ramanthian-made machines were a lot less formidable than the Sheen robots had been, and one of them went down as the cyborg fi?red the assault weapon he carried. “Stand up, you bastard!” the media specialist ordered, “So I can look into your eyes while I shoot you down!”
Tragg was confused as he came to his feet. Not only had he never seen his assailant before, but the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, so who the hell was he? That didn’t prevent the renegade from fi?ring one of his pistols at the stranger however.
Watkins staggered as the slugs slammed into his body armor, laughed out loud, and continued to advance as Tragg tried for a head shot and missed. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” the media specialist demanded, as a shuttle lifted from the airstrip to the north. “I’m the one who burned my signature into your ugly face!”
Tragg looked at the man and looked again. Marci’s brother? No, that was impossible! Yet who else would say something like that? The renegade lowered the pistol.
“Watkins?” he inquired unbelievingly. “Is that you?”
“It sure as hell is,” the cyborg replied grimly. “So get ready to die.”
“Let me see if I understand,” the overseer said as he began to stall for time. “You survived the fi?ght on Long Jump and followed me here, all because of Marci? You are a fool. But I’m glad you came, because that will give me the opportunity to kill you all over again, and do it right this time!”
Watkins raised the assault weapon, placed his fi?nger on the trigger, and was just about to fi?re when the remaining monitor came within range. The robot had very little in the way of armament but a single shot from the machine’s stun gun was suffi?cient to paralyze what remained of the cyborg’s nervous system. And without instructions to the contrary—his electromechanical joints buckled and he dropped to his knees. The assault weapon clattered as it hit the ground, and Watkins collapsed facedown in the dirt.
Meanwhile there was a roar of sound as a Ramanthian aerospace fi?ghter came in low over the camp, released a stick of bombs, and screamed away. The ground shook as a series of overlapping explosions merged into a single uninterrupted CARRRUUUMP. Geysers of dirt shot up into the air, took half a dozen bodies along with them, and fell back down again. It was impossible for Tragg to know which side was winning, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was the passage of time. So when the renegade went to fl?ip the cyborg over, he was in a hurry. Watkins “felt” a boot hook under his body and roll it over. A halo of blue sky surrounded his brother-in-law’s head. The cyborg ordered his body to respond, to do something, but there was no reaction. “So, shithead,” Tragg said contemptuously, as he pointed the pistol downwards.
“I assume Marci’s dead by now—so say hello to the silly bitch for me.’ ”
Watkins saw a fl?ash of light, felt a sense of release, and knew he had failed.
With both of the Mutuus dead, along with most of the camp’s defenders, Team Zebra owned the cratered landscape. But without a way to escape, and under continual attack from above, it was a pyrrhic victory. Which was why Santana, Nankool, and a few others were huddled at the bottom of a bomb crater trying to come up with a plan as the airstrikes continued. “It doesn’t matter why the navy isn’t here,” Santana said pragmatically. “What we need to do is fi?nd a way off this planet. How about the shuttles at the airfi?eld?” he inquired hopefully.
Technically, Commander Peet Schell outranked the legionnaire, but lacked the skills to fi?ght a ground action and knew it. He was an expert on spaceships, however, and was quick to weigh in as another fi?ghter began its run.
