Cybernation

* * *

Santos came in, fists and knees driving, but Michaels knew how to deal with that — he launched himself to meet the attack—

Santos disappeared. He dropped into a weird, crablike pose, feet extended out in front, hands in back, face up but almost lying on the ground. Stupid position, his crotch was wide open. Michaels stepped in to kick Santos’s balls for a field goal—

It was a trap!

Santos snapped one foot up and caught Michaels in the thigh, just missing his groin. The force was enough to spin Michaels around, and he nearly lost his balance. He stumbled, managed to get his feet back under him—

Santos came up, twirled in, and it was all Michaels could do to cover as a quick series of punches bounced off his arms, shoulders, and one against the side of his head that cracked him into a blinding flash of red—

The man had fists like rocks—!

Michaels felt for Santos, not using his eyes but his body. He threw his knee and right elbow, caught a hip with the knee, the side of the man’s neck with the elbow. Not pretty, but enough to back him off—

Santos shook his head, whirled around, stepped out of range. He nodded. “I thought I had you then, good recovery. Now we havin’ fun.”

Michaels knew this was psychological warfare. He’d connected with two solid shots, and Santos didn’t seem overly bothered by either. The neck hit had to hurt, but he was not going to let Michaels know that.

“Your head okay, Branco?”

Michaels was still rattled from the head punch, but he couldn’t let that show, either. “Why wouldn’t it be? Did you hit me? Is that the best you got?”

Santos managed a smile as he circled, spiraling slightly inward. “Best I got? I’m not even warmed up yet. Let me show you. I am younger, stronger, faster, and more skilled. You have enough of your game to see this, no?”

Damned straight about that. He was better than Michaels, and he knew it. He wasn’t going full out, he was playing, as if this was a friendly sparring match. Michaels felt it. He was in trouble here.

Well. Wasn’t that what silat was supposed to train you for? To stay with somebody who was stronger, faster, and as well-trained?

Yeah. But this guy was some kind of world-class fighter. He probably trained for hours every day. He had the edge. He knew it, and Michaels knew it, too. Silat would let you keep up with most people, but it didn’t make you invincible, certainly not at his level of ability.

But there was one thing he had going for him, and maybe he could stall the guy long enough for that to happen.

Michaels circled to his left, staying low. He said, “You want to hear a story?”

Santos flashed a smile. “Is it a funny story?”

“I think so.”

“Go ahead. I need a good laugh. Been a bad day.”

They circled, each to his left.

“Once upon a time, there was a gathering of animals in the woods. They talked about the rain, the sunshine, the state of the world. At one point, the talk turned to which creature was the most deadly in the forest, and Tiger proclaimed that he was the most dangerous animal.

“ ‘Really,’ Dog said. ‘Why is that?’

“Tiger laughed. ‘Just look at me! Compared to you, I am bigger, stronger, and faster! My teeth are longer, my claws are sharper! I could break your neck with a single swipe of one paw! Is this not true?’

“ ‘It is true,’ Dog admitted.

“ ‘Then you agree that I am the deadliest animal in the forest.’

“ ‘Maybe not,’ Dog said.

“This angered Tiger greatly, and he roared his displeasure.”

Santos grinned, gave a little foot feint, but did not follow up. Michaels shifted his hands, but did not take the bait.

“Just making sure that you’re awake, White.”

“I’m awake.”

“Go on with your story. Tigre is angry.”

“Yes. And he looks at Dog and says, ‘So, you say I am not the deadliest animal? Who is, then? You?’

“ ‘Not me,’ Dog said.

“ ‘Tell me! Tell me now, or I will kill you!’ And he reared up and prepared to leap on Dog. But before he could attack, there came an explosion, and Tiger suddenly fell over dead.

“There behind the animals stood Man, smoke curling from the muzzle of a rifle.

“And Dog smiled his dog-smile and said, ‘I am not the deadliest animal in the forest. But I have a friend…’ ”

Santos smiled. “That’s not such a funny story, Branco.”

“Oh, I don’t know” came a voice from behind him. “I thought it was pretty good.”

Santos stepped back and half-spun.

A black man, another tourist-not-a-tourist, stood there, aiming a handgun at him. He held the gun in both hands, and it was pointed right at Santos’s heart. A second man stood behind him. He had a gun, too.

Too far away to get to them before they could shoot. Hmm.

“Commander,” the newly arrived black man said.

“General. I am extremely glad to see you.”

Santos glared at branco. “You cheated.”

He smiled. “Yes. Cheating is good silat,” he said. “That’s the art I practice, by the way. Pukulan Pentjak Silat Serak. From Indonesia.”

“Ah.” Santos knew of the Indonesian forms. He had never faced anyone who played them before, but he had seen pictures, films. “Where is your skirt?”

“It’s a sarong, not a skirt—!”

Santos leaped, turned the jump into a dive and roll, and as he came up, made that into another dive—

The gun went off, but a hair slow. The bullet burned across his back, the lightest of touches. A graze, that was all, nothing, no damage—

There was a large sealed window looking into the hallway just ahead of him. He was a step and a dive away from it…

The gun boomed again, loud in the enclosed space, and the bullet hit the glass in front of him, punched through, and spiderwebbed the glass with fractures. Good!

He launched himself at the cracked plate headfirst, hands and forearms up to cover his face. Hit!

He flew through the window in a spray of glass shards, tucked, rolled, hit the carpeted floor, came up, too much momentum, slammed into the corridor’s far wall. That shook many of the glass fragments on him loose. He grunted as he flattened against the wall, pushed off and L-stepped away, shoving hard with his left foot, moving to his right, as the third bullet punched through the wall where he had been a quarter-second ago. But now he was moving down the hall, ducking low, and gaining speed with each step. In two heartbeats, he was out of the line-of- fire, the angle on the window no good to the shooter anymore. He pumped for all he was worth, feet digging into the rug, leaning into it, almost a fall. He reached a juncture, cut to his right, skidded across that corridor and into the wall, hit on his left shoulder, bounced off, and kept sprinting.

He laughed, loudly. He had a small wound on his back, and there was blood coming from little cuts on his arms, the back of one hand, but he was gone. They would never catch him from behind. He would find a way off this ship. CyberNation might be mortally wounded, but that did not matter. He would get away. He would go home. He would count his gold and have the last laugh.

But first, there was one small piece of business he needed to finish. Then he could leave.

* * *

Chance had the pistol and the disk with the blackmail insurance on it. Nothing else was important enough to worry about, not now. She didn’t know how many of the invaders were on the ship, or if her people had had time to