“But what if we could distract him?” Santana wanted to know. “So you could take two, or even three tries if that was necessary?”
“That would be wonderful,” the spy ball agreed. “What have you got in mind?”
“I will need access to the ship’s PA system,” the offi?cer answered. “So we can talk to Tragg. . . . As for the rest, well, we’ll see. Maybe the sonofabitch believes in ghosts and maybe he doesn’t.”
Meanwhile, knowing that the POWs had cut the space elevator loose, the Ramanthians threw everything they had at the Imperator. And, because it was going to take at least half an hour to bring her drives back online, the dreadnaught was an easy target for all of the fi?ghters, patrol boats, and destroyers that came after her. But at Tragg’s urging the bridge crew had been able to restore the battleship’s overshields—which meant none of the weapons thrown at her were actually hitting the hull. Not yet anyway, although that could change because the systems involved hadn’t been maintained in a long time. And the much-stressed force fi?eld could fail at any moment. That possibility was very much on Tragg’s mind as the renegade sat with his back to a corner and felt the hull shake as a torpedo struck the ship. The Ramanthians were forced to grab pincer-holds as one of the lights went out and particles of decades-old dust avalanched down from above. I won’t be able to keep all of them under control, the fugitive thought to himself. Not for two or three weeks in hyperspace. So it would make sense to kill four of fi?ve of the bastards the moment we get under way. But which ones? Such were Tragg’s thoughts as a female voice came over the intercom. “Max?
Can you hear me? This is Marci.”
Tragg felt ice water trickle into his veins. Did the voice belong to Marci? Who had returned from the dead? No! It was a trick! “You’re not Marci,” the renegade objected, as his eyes began to dart around the room. “Your name is Mary Trevane.”
Tragg wasn’t using the intercom system, but Vanderveen could hear him, thanks to an audio relay from Batkin’s remote. “No,” the diplomat replied. “Trevane is dead. You crucifi?ed her.”
The Ramanthian bridge crew looked on in alarm as the human stood and began to turn circles with both weapons at the ready. “You can hear me,” Tragg said suspiciously.
“But that’s impossible.”
“I listen to you all the time,” Vanderveen replied. “It gives me something to do while I wait for you to die. I’m looking forward to that. . . . Aren’t you?”
The hatch was locked from the inside, but by using the remote to strike the slightly concave pressure-style switch, Batkin could theoretically trigger the door. So while Vanderveen sought to keep Tragg occupied, Batkin sent the tiny device racing toward the switch. There was a loud clacking sound as the sphere made contact with the pressure switch, but the hatch remained stubbornly closed, and the spy ball knew it would be necessary to try again.
“What was that?” the renegade demanded suspiciously, as he turned toward the sound.
At least two of the Ramanthians had seen the tiny sphere hit the switch, bounce off, and sail away. But they weren’t about to say anything as the pistol-wielding madman fl?ew into a rage. “What are you staring at?” Tragg screamed at them. “Get this ship under way, or I’ll kill every damned one of you!”
Vanderveen chose that moment to switch personas.
“This is Mary Trevane,” the diplomat said over the PA system. “You can kill them—but you can’t kill me. Because I’m already dead!”
Batkin took advantage of the distraction to trigger the remote again. And because the robotic device was part of him, the cyborg went along for a virtual ride as the sphere sped through the air and smashed into the concave surface of the switch, a process that resulted in the electronic equivalent of pain.
But the results were worth it as the contacts closed, power fl?owed, and the hatch hissed open. Tragg heard the sound and whirled. But Santana had entered the control room by that time. Both men fi?red, but it was the soldier’s bullet that fl?ew true. It hit the renegade over the sternum, and while unable to penetrate Tragg’s body armor, packed enough of a whallop to throw the renegade down. Tragg fi?red both weapons as he hit the deck, but his bullets went wide as he slid backwards. A series of shots, all fi?red by Santana, struck various parts of the renegade’s body. One bullet creased the side of Tragg’s skull, two struck his right arm, and one smashed into his left. The mercenary’s pistols clattered as they hit the deck. That was the moment when a shadow fell across Tragg’s scarred face, and Vanderveen stared down at him along the barrel of a borrowed weapon. “My real name is Christine Vanderveen,” the diplomat said coldly. “This is for Marci, her brother, and me. More than that, it’s for all of those you murdered on Jericho.”
Tragg tried to fend off the bullets with his badly broken arms, but the projectiles went right through and pulped his face. The Imperator shuddered as if in sympathy as another missile exploded against her screens. That was when the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings arrived on the bridge. “Now that was a nice piece of diplomacy,” Nankool remarked approvingly as he looked down at Tragg. “Good work, Christine. Let’s go home.”
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Gradually, over a period of months, what had been President Nankool’s dining room had been converted into a chamber where Vice President Leo Jakov could receive offi?cial guests. Or, as was the case on that particular morning, sit on his thronelike chair and brood. And there was plenty to brood about because, ever since the prison break, General Booly, his wife, and the rest of the Nankool loyalists had been hard at work trying to prevent his confi?rmation. And with some success, too—if the rumors could be believed. Which was why Jakov felt mixed emotions as Kay Wilmot entered the room. What kind of news will she have for me? the vice president wondered as he eyed the diplomat’s face.
Wilmot looked tired, and therefore older, which was just one of the reasons Jakov had begun to have sex with potential replacements. And there were other issues, too, such as the fact that the plump offi?cial had become far too knowledgeable about both him and his supporters, some of whom placed a high value on their privacy. That was why Wilmot wasn’t going to survive much longer regardless of how the upcoming vote turned out. “You look beautiful this morning,” Jakov lied, and waited to see her face light up.
“Thank you,” the diplomat replied. “I’m pleased to say that I have some good news for you! There are some fence sitters of course, senators who will wait until the very last second before committing themselves, but even without their support it looks like you will be confi?rmed.”
One of Jakov’s eyebrows rose slightly. “By how many votes?”
“Two,” Wilmot answered. “But,” the assistant undersecretary hastened to add, “that hardly matters does it? A win is a win.”
