taken possession of the offi?cer’s sword. Blood fl?ew as the blade rose and fell. “Lieutenant Foley,” the offi?cer replied automatically. Utley nodded approvingly. “The Legion or the Marine Corps?”
“Navy.”
“Well, you and your boys did one helluva job, Lieutenant. Most of us are members of the resistance,” Utley explained. “The bastards captured the whole bunch of us night before last, sentenced us to death, and brought us here for execution. It’s all part of a calculated effort to intimidate the population. They like to fl?y prisoners to remote locations, kill them, and leave the bodies. It makes for a pretty effective warning. What were you doing here anyway?”
“I’m glad we were able to help,” Foley replied evasively. And was surprised to discover that he meant it. “We’d better get the hell out of here, though. Because a quick-reaction force may be on the way.”
“You’re right about that,” Utley said fervently, before turning to yell at the rest of his group. “Take their weapons and follow Lieutenant Foley!” And that was the moment when a new and rather unlikely guerrilla leader was born. Even though all of the traffi?c on the two-lane road was headed east, and vehicles that ran out of gas were routinely pushed off the highway by the motorists behind them, the densely packed mass of vehicles was traveling at no more than one or two miles per hour when the Ramanthian fi?ghters attacked. They came out of the sun, just as they had been trained to do, and swerved back and forth as they followed the serpentine highway west toward the cities from which the people below were trying to escape.
Vehicles exploded, rear-ended each other, and ran off the road as energy bolts tore them apart. Margaret Vanderveen was driving, and managed to stop the truck without hitting the car in front of her, but could do little more than close her eyes and pray as the alien fi?ghters passed overhead. Then the Ramanthians were gone. It wasn’t the fi?rst time that the slow-moving column had been savaged. Margaret couldn’t remember how many attacks there had been as she opened her eyes to discover that she and her three companions were still alive. Others weren’t so fortunate, however, as could be seen from the fl?ames that enveloped three vehicles farther up the road. Horns were honking, and people were shouting orders at each other, as the cars just ahead of or behind burning wrecks struggled to put a few feet of space between the confl?agration and whatever they were driving. Margaret turned to the maintenance man seated next to her.
“Okay, Thomas,” Margaret said. “You win. We’ll take the next turnoff.”
Lisa Qwan, and the robot named John, were in the backseat. Both were familiar with the ongoing debate, and neither chose to intervene. All of the humans agreed it would be necessary to abandon the truck and trailer at some point, but the question had always been “when?” Margaret favored staying on the road as long as possible, because she felt they could make better progress on the road, even at a slow crawl. Benson understood that point of view but felt highway travel was too dangerous. Especially given attacks from the air. That perspective was reinforced by the sight of the stillsmoldering vehicles that a group of volunteers was pushing off the road. There would be no burial for the blackened bodies that remained inside of them. Just the slow-motion decay Mother Nature provided to all of her creations. It took the better part of an hour for the mob of cars and trucks to get under way again, but once they did, Margaret and her party were on the lookout for a turnoff. Any turnoff, so they could get off by themselves and unload their supplies without attracting the wrong sort of attention. Because while only a minority of the refugees were thieves, they were a dangerous minority, and would happily prey on anyone they could. The opportunity to part company with the metal river came an hour later, as a dirt road appeared on the right, and Margaret put the wheel over. “Here we go,” she said. “For better or for worse.”
“Let’s stop after half a mile or so,” Benson suggested.
“And put on a show of force. The truck, trailer, and contents are so valuable that there’s a high probability someone will try to follow us.”
Margaret knew it was true and felt a knot form in her stomach as the truck continued to rattle along. There were evergreens on both sides of the road, which judging from their height, had been planted fi?fteen years earlier. “Okay,”
Benson said, as the truck-trailer combination came to a halt.
“Everybody grab a gun, and make sure it’s loaded. You know the kind of people we’re dealing with. So if it comes to that, show no mercy. They won’t. Agreed?”
Unlike some military androids, John’s programming included specifi?c prohibitions against the taking of human lives, so that left only three of them to face down whoever chose to pursue them, and that was downright scary. There was reason to worry, because even as the cloud of dust generated by the truck-trailer combination began to blow away, another one appeared behind them.
“Here they come,” Benson said grimly, as he pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber. “Remember, if I fi?re, you fi?re, and don’t stop until they’re dead.”
What the burly maintenance man didn’t say was what the rest of the party should do if he were killed? But maybe that was obvious. They could fi?ght, or they could die. Because Benson had no intention of making his way down the middle of the road so the oncoming thieves could simply run him over, he walked next to it instead. So when the dusty yellow cab came to a stop, and two men got out of it, Benson addressed them from behind a thin screen of trees.
“Get back in the car,” Benson ordered in a loud, clear voice.
“And do it now.”
Both men carried hunting rifl?es and turned toward the sound. One of them had a narrow face, hollow cheeks, and a two-day growth of black stubble. He was dressed in an olive drab T-shirt and fi?lthy jeans. He smiled engagingly. “Hey, take it easy, pops. . . . It ain’t like that. Larry and I saw you turn off and fi?gured you could use some help. Especially with two women and all.”
“Thanks,” Benson said, grimly. “But no thanks. Now get in the car and turn it around.”
“Or what?” Larry demanded belligerently. He was wearing a blue bandana on his head, had a sheath knife dangling from the lanyard he wore around his neck, and sported knee-length shorts worn over a pair of scuffed combat boots. Larry was holding a rifl?e with his left hand, but as his right hand began to drift toward the pistol located at the small of his back, a shot rang out. The .300 Magnum bullet struck Larry between the shoulder blades, blew a hole through his bony chest, and hit a tree to Benson’s right. As the dead body continued to fall forward, the fi?rst man attempted to bring his weapon up and took half a load of double-ought buck from Benson. He dropped to his knees and appeared to be praying when the maintenance man shot him again. Blood sprayed the dirt and immediately began to dry.
Margaret stepped out onto the other side of the road at that point, still carrying a scope-mounted rifl?e. She looked pale, and Benson understood why. “You did a good job, ma’am,” the maintenance man said gruffl?y, as he stepped over one of the bodies. “The only problem being that you were fi?ring in my direction. But all’s well that
