released from its suffering, and there was a sudden swirl of activity as various holy men pointed up at the building from which the shot had originated, and urged their followers to attack. The response was immediate, as half a dozen snipers opened fi?re on Techno Society headquarters, and scores of warriors began to scale the wooden ladders that would carry them up onto the highest bench. “Now we know who their leaders are,” Shaz stated coldly. “Kill them.”
Phan smiled, secured a fresh grip on her weapon, and went to work. Her aim was good, and each death sent ripples out through the ethers, which rolled over Dyson like waves of pain. He staggered backward, brought his hands up to his temples, and slid down the rear wall to sit on the fl?oor.
Meanwhile, having volunteered to act as the assassin’s spotter, Shaz brought a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes and directed Phan’s fi?re. They made a good team. Leader after leader fell, and, as they did, the attack began to falter. Then, having reloaded numerous times, the assassin went to work neutralizing those snipers who still survived, while the combat variant fi?red both pistols into the crowd directly below. The ensuing slaughter lasted for less than a minute before the holy warriors broke and ran. Dozens lay dead, their bodies akimbo, their spirits still fi?lled with hatred. Some of the fallen groaned, or called for help, but were soon dispatched by cudgel- wielding metal men who prowled the battlefi?eld like hooded angels of death. “Well,” Shaz remarked lightly, “that went reasonably well.”
“Yes, it did,” the local operative agreed gratefully. “But even though the ignorant bastards didn’t know what they were doing, one aspect of their attack was successful.”
The combat variant looked up from reloading a pistol.
“And what, pray tell, was that?”
“The gate,” the functionary replied sadly. “The explosion took it off-line.”
FOUR
The spaceship
—From promotional material produced by the Cylar Line Tas was ensconced in his favorite chair, gnawing on a well seared arm bone, when his older brother entered the compartment. “Look at that!’ Tas said, using the humerus as a pointer. “The slimeballs are up to something.”
When Mog looked up at the video monitors he realized that Tas was correct. A large percentage of the ship’s passengers had gathered together toward the center of the hold. And, given the recent “harvest,” the outlaw knew why. “You reckon they’ll come after us?” Tas wanted to know.
“It’s too early to tell,” Mog replied judiciously. “They might decide to fortify the hold in order to keep us out.”
“It won’t work,” Tas predicted, as he sprinkled salt on his meat. “We always get in. . . . Don’t we, Mog?”
“Yup,” the larger man agreed, as he fi?ngered his beard.
“We always do. . . . But I want you and Ruk to stay sober for a while. There could be some fi?ghting during the next twelve hours or so.”
“You can count on me,” Tas said, through a mouthful of food.
“I know that,” Mog replied, “and I take comfort from it. See the man wearing the short red jacket? The one standing in front of the rest? Watch him. . . . He looks like a leader.”
“I will,” the younger man promised. “He lives with the pretty woman.”
“And she belongs to me,” Mog emphasized as he turned to leave. “And don’t forget it.”
Tas knew the female was off-limits, but a man can dream, and the cannibal’s eyes remained glued to the screen as he fi?nished his lunch.
The meeting was Norr’s idea; but for reasons the runner wasn’t sure of, he wound up at the center of it. Maybe it was the no-nonsense manner in which the murderous acrobat had been neutralized or the fact that many of the passengers had spoken with him when they came to get water. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the group presently assembled at the center of the hold saw the runner as their leader. That made Rebo uncomfortable since the runner was a loner by nature and had always gone to great lengths to stay that way. And individuals like master merchant Isban Okey were the reason why.
Okey was a voluble man who, having survived the ambush, never stopped talking about it. The merchant was of medium height, and wore a red fez, matching jacket, and baggy pantaloons. The blunderbuss that he held cradled in his arms was almost sure to kill the man next to him if it went off, but Rebo was relieved to see that Okey’s right index fi?nger was clear of the brass trigger. “I don’t know,” the merchant said doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better to hole up here, rather than go looking for the bandits?”
“It might be,” the runner allowed patiently, “but consider this. . . . When the shuttle landed on Thara it was empty. Then, when we arrived in the hold, there weren’t any fi?res. Not even hot coals. What would that suggest?”
It was a middle-aged woman who offered an answer. Though dressed in plain clothes, she wore a small fortune in gold jewelry. “It suggests that they murdered all of the previous passengers,” the woman stated. “In spite of whatever precautions they took when people began to disappear.”
“Exactly,” Rebo agreed. “So, rather than sit and wait for the bandits to pick us off one at a time, I say we hunt the bastards down. They must have a lair, a place where they feel secure, and that’s where we will attack them.”
“Yeah! He’s right!” a male passenger proclaimed. That was followed by a chorus of similar comments and calls for action. “Let’s track the scum down,” a burly blacksmith added, “and give them what they deserve!”
There was a chorus of assent, and it was all Rebo could do to bring a modicum of organization to the mob
