At least Doug got the right girl. Amye thinks as she considers she is mere feet from where the princess will kneel before her soon-to-be husband-king.
She has the vantage point to witness the grand entrance of the princess. Hoisted on a litter of golden silk she’s carried by the most muscular-shaped men. Amye won’t admire them as on the left side of the litter is an oiled Lieutenant Beers. The litter reaches the molten gold. Two litter bearers raise their hands to take the princess’s arms and lower her to the bridge. The white silken layered robes of her gown stop at her ankles to reveal her exposed painted toes. Amye stares at the young brunette with lilies woven into her hair, gulping as she steps forward. Her foot sinks into the gold. She takes the next dainty step with no hint of pain. It has to be warm still or she wouldn’t sink.
If Australia were here she could explain the cultural significance of forcing this poor pasty-skinned girl, whose feet have never touched dirt, to trudge through molten hot gold. Something has to have been mixed in with the gold to prevent it from burning her toes.
The princess reaches the top of the steps and kneels before her future husband.
The ramp leading below the dais lowers.
The wedding guests sit.
Before the litter bearers exit and the vows are exchanged, Reynard and Doug open fire from the ramp. The crowd scatters in screams of terror. Plasma bolts shear through the ceiling, raining orange birds onto the bridge. JC flings a rifle at Scott, who shoves another litter bearer into the water in order to catch the weapon.
Scott dives for the floor as he fires over his crewmates, blowing off half of the facial hammer of a Mokarran.
Doug and Reynard fire into the air, scattering all the guests and the flower girls. Even the armored warriors—with only simple ceremonial weapons—scurry to the exit.
Amye uses the distraction to grab the princess and drag her toward the open ramp. Confused, the prince considers the strange display as part of the ceremony as he reaches for his bride. Before he touches her, his bodyguards shuffle him away from the dais.
Amye flings the tiny girl over her shoulder and drops down the ramp. With the royal out of the way Scott unleashes beam after beam of plasma at the Mokarran as he dives for the ramp. He slides forward into a shoulder roll in order to pop up on his feet.
JC slams her fist into the ramp raise button.
The princess screams and thrashes about on Amye’s shoulder. She might be able to escape if not for the layers of fabric. Amye would be throwing a tantrum too if she had just been stolen away while her grand wedding day was shot up by a bunch of thugs.
Where’s Ki-Ton? Do something about her screams! Scott, are you stupid? “You fired a shot at the princess!” Arguments and yelling ensue all at once around her, and all she wants is a blaster and for the high-pitched screams to cease in her ear.
The ramp lumbers into place above them. JC blasts the controls in an attempt to prevent it from being lowered on their position.
“A little help here,” Amye demands.
JC touches the princess’s forehead with the single command, sleep.
The petite girl goes limp.
“She’s only five foot. I blasted the Mokarran three feet taller. No chance of me missing. And he was reaching for something,” Scott defends his action.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Reynard snaps. “Where’s Ki-Ton?”
“I heard blaster fire from behind me. He must have driven guards back from this corridor.”
“We’ve a smerth’n problem.” Doug beats on a door. The metal clangs. “They have dropped emergency blast doors to the transporter room.” He takes a handheld computer from his belt, waving it in the air.
“Australia’s fully capable of operating the transporter,” Scott suggests.
“No smerth’n way! They’ve activated inhibitor shields.”
“Beaming through those would be like being reassembled through a salad grater.”
“I get it.” Reynard has no idea how to get his crew out, but he won’t let them know it. “Find defensive positions!”
Scott checks his rifle’s energy clip, as does Reynard.
He shakes his head in a silent answer. Reynard and Doug both fired recklessly to scatter the crowd with no regard for ammo, expecting to drop down the ramp and transport away.
Doug raises his rifle and fires. A small box built into the wall crumbles into a rain of sparks and burning plastic. He glances back at his computer.
“They’re localized inhibitor stations. Not one big shield generator,” he explains.
Amye cuts off his lengthy explanation. “We get it. Shoot enough of those emitters in a given area and we’ve a safe transporter window.”
“Guards are coming,” JC reports.
“How many?”
“Too far away to detect individual minds. If I had to guess—all of them.”
Reynard trots down the corridor to a branch on the left. “Move! Scott, cover us.”
He attempts to open every door as he passes. Weaponless, Amye stays on his heels, never losing her grip on the princess. Rifle fire behind him incinerates another transporter inhibitor.
“These things are hidden all over.”
Reynard guesses they don’t have the time to find them all. He doesn’t understand why they haven’t been overrun by guards by now. He would think there would be hundreds flooding the corridors, and with every door secured they are left vulnerable in the corridor.
“They must not want to risk hurting the princess in a crossfire.”
Amye answers, “It’s the only reason we aren’t being overrun.”
The corridor splits. Dead royal soldiers litter the carpet. Amye draws one of the dead soldiers’ sidearm, more comfortable with a pistol in these cramped corridors over a rifle. “We’d better get out of here quick. With dead palace guards, the Mokarran will force the queen to turn us over, and the Mokarran don’t keep prisoners.”
“Find a way past the transporter inhibitors and we’re gone.” Reynard ignores the dead men.
Amye spins around and yanks the handheld computer from
