concerning the loss of the Gladiator but with no mention of Nankool or his staff.”
“It’s imperative that we keep the lid on,” Xanith agreed earnestly. “Because if the Ramanthians realize they have the president, they will use him for leverage. I’m sure he would tell us to refuse their demands, but who knows how much pressure Earth’s government will bring to bear? Or what the Senate may decide? The Thrakies might lead a
‘Save our president’ movement actually intended to aid the Ramanthians.”
“And there’s something else to consider,” the fraillooking Dweller added gloomily. “Very few people within the Confederacy are aware of the Spirit cult that has grown increasingly popular within the Ramanthian military. They believe true warriors always fi?ght to the death. That means they have no respect for prisoners and tend to treat them like animals. So, if Nankool and the rest of the survivors fall into the pincers of those who believe in what they call ‘The True Path,’ life will be very hard indeed. So hard that one of his fellow prisoners may be tempted to reveal the president’s identity in hopes of receiving favorable treatment.” It was a sobering thought, and even though all of them had to return to the party, it was diffi?cult to think of anything else.
THE VILLAGE OF WATERSONG, PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
As the sun started to rise somewhere beyond the cold gray haze, daylight began to fade in, as if emanating from within the planet itself. And gradually, as the mist started to clear, the jagged Towers of Algeron appeared more than a thousand miles to the south. Some of the peaks soared eighty thousand feet into the sky, making the mountains so heavy that if they were somehow transported to Earth, their weight would crack the planet’s crust. But the two worlds were different. Very different. Because while it took Terra twenty-four standard hours to execute a full rotation, Algeron completed a full 360-degree turn every two hours and forty-two minutes. The cycle was so fast that centrifugal force had created a globe-spanning mountain range, which thanks to the gravity differential between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what it would have on Earth.
None of which was of the slightest interest to the onearmed bandit chieftain named Nofear Throatcut except to the extent that most of those in the village below him had been asleep for two local days and would remain so for two additional planetary rotations. There would be sentries, of course, because no self-respecting Naa village would be so foolish as to rest without posting some, but having been on duty for a while, and with the gradual return of daylight, the watch keepers would not only be a little sleepy, but slightly overconfi?dent.
But Throatcut and his mixed band of deserters, renegades, and thieves were anything but typical. A fact that quickly became apparent as Nightrun Fargo pulled the trigger on his homemade crossbow and sent a metal bolt speeding through the early-morning mist. The razor-sharp point ripped a hole through a sentry’s unprotected throat. Which was no small feat since it had been necessary for the bandit to crawl within 150 yards of his target without generating noise or being detected by the villager’s acute sense of smell.
The target, a youngster of only seventeen, made a gurgling sound as he attempted to shout a warning, tugged at the now slippery shaft, and was already in the process of falling as Nosay Slowspeak loosed another bolt. This one was directed at an older sentry. There was a dull thump as the bolt hit the warrior’s chest, penetrated his leather armor, and knocked the oldster off his feet. But the more senior watch keeper was a clever old coot who, having tied a lanyard to the cast-iron alarm bell mounted next to him, managed to ring the device even as he fell. Throatcut swore as a loud metallic clang was heard, and a third sentry fi?red into the mist. “Okay,” the chieftain said, as he brought a Legion-issue hand com to his lips.
“Lindo, you know what to do. Don’t kill all of the females, though. Some of the boys are horny!”
That got a laugh, plus some ribald commentary that would never have been tolerated by the noncoms Throatcut had served under in the Legion. “You got that right!”
Longride Doothman put in.
“Save one of those whores for me!” Salwa Obobwa added eagerly, as more shots were fi?red from within the village.
But Throatcut put forward no objection because he knew how important it was to maintain just enough discipline to get the job done and not one iota more if he wanted to remain in command.
The villagers were beginning to emerge from their underground homes by then. The locals were only halfdressed in many cases but armed to the teeth with a mix of locally produced rifl?es, Legion-issue weapons of every possible description, and oversized Hudathan hand-medowns. And, given the rough-and-ready nature of the Naa tribespeople, the villagers would have been able to give a good account of themselves had it not been for Throatcut’s secret weapon.
Like many of his kind, Cady Lindo had been executed for murder back on Earth, given an opportunity to trade oblivion for a place in the Legion of the Damned, and downloaded into a succession of increasingly complex electromechanical bodies until he was qualifi?ed to occupy the very latest version of the battle-tested Trooper II (T-2) combat vehicle. A ten-foot-tall machine that stood on two armored legs and could carry a single bio bod into a variety of combat environments while employing a truly devastating array of weapons ranging from an arm-mounted air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, to an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon and two shoulder-mounted missile launchers, both of which were safely stored up on the mesa that Throatcut and his gang used as a base. But Lindo had no need for missile launchers as he emerged from hiding to enter the north end of the village. Bullets began to ping against his armor, and a poorly thrown grenade went off about fi?fteen feet away, as the cyborg opened fi?re. The outgunned defenders never had a chance as they were snatched off their feet, cut to shreds, or incinerated as they attempted to fl?ee.
Seeing that the head-on assault had failed, some of the local warriors sought to outfl?ank the mechanical monster by turning west into the protection of the rocks that backed the ravine-hugging village. But Throatcut had anticipated such a move and a force of bio bods were there to cut them down. The human named Obobwa, along with Musicplay, Fargo, and Slowspeak opened fi?re with fully automatic weapons as a dozen half-seen warriors charged into a hail of lead.
Throatcut, who had been watching the slaughter from the top of the rock-strewn slope, began to issue new orders before the last body hit the ground. “Cease fi?re! Save your ammo! And make sure all of them are dead.”
The bandits rose from their various hiding places, and a series of shots rang out, as Throatcut followed a steep switchbacking trail down into the now-devastated village. A comely female, armed with an old muzzle loader, popped up out of a hole. But the long-barreled rifl?e was too heavy for her, and she was still trying to aim it when Throatcut struck the side of her head with his pistol. She collapsed at his feet.
Though no longer engaged in combat, Lindo was standing guard. Though unlikely, there was always the chance that warriors from another village would happen by, or a group of locals would return from the hunt. If so, the T-2’s sensors should pick them up, thereby giving the rest of the gang time to fl?ee or prepare themselves for combat. There were screams, interspersed by more gunfi?re, as the bandits fought their way down into the subterranean dwellings, where loot in the form of food, booze, and ammo was theirs for the taking. The older females were
