“What about Long Jump?” a voice yelled. “Let’s talk about that!”
Nankool raised a hand. “What occurred on Long Jump remains under investigation .. . Let’s wait for the facts and reserve final judgements until then.”
Holander seethed, wondered if he could nail Nankool as well, and forced himself to wait. He had very little experience with weapons, which meant that the shorter the range me better. He would kill Jepp... followed by the President.
There was no applause as Jepp made his way to the podium, a rather jarring departure from his most cherished fantasies, and one for which he might force the senate to apologize. Still, the would-be messiah thought to himself, they deserve a second chance—an opportunity to willingly join his flock. After that, well, the fleet would make his will known. He smiled into the lights.
‘There is a plan, a glorious plan, conceived by God and given to me. It consists of three parts, the Cleansing, which is now under way, the Covenant, in which all sentients will bind themselves over to God, and the Consecration. Once the Consecration has been completed and the throne is mine, a cadre of secular advisors will be required. Beings such as yourselves who can take my pronouncements and, with assistance from God’s silvery host, bring them to life. What I offer is nothing less than a partnership, an opportunity to step back from the apocalypse and begin a new age. An age in which ...”
Holander reached under his seat, rumbled for the weapon, and attempted to free it. The tape was stubborn, and the action proved more difficult than he thought it would be. Finally, energy pistol in hand, he staggered to his feet. A guard yelled but it was too late.
Everything felt so weightless. Memories stuttered through his brain. He saw Sissy hold up her arms, cheered as she dove from a dock, and clapped as she accepted her diploma. The barrel wavered, found its target, and spit bolts of bright blue energy. Blue like her eyes, blue like the water, blue like . . . The Hoon detected the threat, gave the necessary orders, and monitored the results. The security units responded in unison. They brought their weapons up and fired. Holander staggered as nine bolts of coherent light punched their way through his chest and struck the senators beyond. What felt like a red-hot steel bar punched its way through Jepp’s shoulder. Sam felt clear and scuttled towards Veera. The human took two steps backwards, felt Alpha wrap an arm around his waist, and shouted “No!”
But it was too late. The security units continued to fire.
Maylo ChienChu fell as a bolt of energy ripped through her chest, the master at arms died with his sidearm half drawn, and a staffer lost the left side of his face. Someone screamed, panic erupted, and the aisles filled with bodies.
Jepp pushed Alpha away, screamed, “Stop it!” at the top of his lungs, and threw himself into the line of fire. The Hoon ordered its minions to pause, “heard” some sort of alarm, but saw no further threat. That being the case, it allowed the human to intervene.
Jepp, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way, looked left and right. Sergi ChienChu was crouched a few feet away, holding his niece in his arms, radioing for help. The exprospector pointed.
“We need a hostage—someone they won’t harm—take him!”
Though new to the idea of hostages—and struck by how illogical the concept was—the AI was quick to respond. Two of the security units seized ChienChu, discovered that the cyborg was a good deal stronger than he appeared, but still managed to bring him under control. Then, with Jepp, Alpha, Veera, and ChienChu at the center, the Hoon-controlled robots formed a defensive wheel. Light flared as even more power went to their shields and the Sheen headed for the doors. Booly, along with a half dozen heavily armed MPs pounded around a comer, and skidded to a stop. Doors slammed open as what looked like a silvery amoeba emerged from the senate chambers. It oozed their way. The soldiers raised their weapons, but Booly ordered them to stop. “Hold your fire! Lower your rifles! Back away.”
The MPs backed into an alcove while the strange assemblage marched by. Booly caught a glimpse of ChienChu’s eyes, heard the industrialist shout Maylo’s name, and knew something horrible had happened. He turned to a lieutenant. “Track them all the way to the bay. Don’t interfere, and don’t let anyone else interfere. Jepp is meaningless, and the Hoon is somewhere else.”
The lieutenant didn’t know who the Hoon was, but knew how to follow orders, and proceeded to do so. The clutch of marines followed as the mixed party of machines and biologicals retraced their steps. Booly, feeling guilty because of the way he had dumped the entire matter onto a there lieutenant, ran for the senate chambers. The interior was absolute chaos. The legionnaire saw a splash of red on the front of the podium, but no sign of Maylo. A naval officer bumped his side. She’d been nicked by an energy beam and was clutching a still smoking arm. She looked pale. “Sorry, sir, what a mess.”
A party of robo medics entered through the main door.
Booly waved. “Over here! Now damn it!” He turned back. “Tell me. Commander, what happened to Maylo ChienChu?”
“They shot her,” the naval officer replied shakily.
“Through the chest Sorry, sir, I feel a bit dizzy.”
A robot caught the commander before she hit the deck.
Another came to help.
Booly felt something rise to choke off his air. Maylo? Dead? No! He refused to believe it. The officer pushed his way through the crowd, stepped over a mostly decapitated body, and saw Nankool. He yelled over the crowd noise “Mr. President! What happened to Ms. ChienChu?”
“Wounded! They took her to the sick bay!”
Booly waved his thanks, turned, and pushed his way back through the crowd. “Wounded?” Not killed?
Had Nankool chosen the word intentionally? Or because he really didn’t know?
Booly hit the corridor, ignored the voices that called to him, and pounded down the hall. Though referred to as the “sick bay,” the facility was a good deal more than that. It consisted of a full-scale hospital, staffed with medical personnel from each of the member races, and ready to deal with almost anything. If anyone could save Maylo, they could. That’s what the legionnaire told himself as he skidded around a comer, passed a row of self-propelled gurneys, and headed for the well marked hatch. It hissed open, and a desk blocked his way. An android rose to greet him. It wore a marine green paint job. A serial number had been stenciled across its chest. “Greetings, General. Arc you in need of medical attention?”
Booly fought to catch his breath. “No, I’m looking for a patient... A woman by the name of Maylo ChienChu.”
“Yes, they brought her in about ten minutes ago,” the robot replied gravely. ‘The doctors are treating her now. Please take a seat and ...”
Booly ducked around the desk, steered for the sign that said “Trauma,” and stuck his head into an alcove. A Turr diplomat lay on the table, his face contorted with pain. Having already passed through Holander’s chest, an energy beam had severed his hand.
A doctor frowned. Booly said, “Sorry,” and moved to the next cube. It was packed with medical personnel all gathered around Maylo’s supine body. Her face looked slack and lifeless. The officer pushed his way forward, but a hand grabbed his arm. “Not now. General We must allow the medics some room.”
Booly turned to find himself face-to-face with Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six. Both men wondered the same thing ... Assuming that Maylo loved one of them—which had she chosen? It was a selfish thought, and both felt guilty. “How is she?” Booly asked. “Can they save her?”
The clone shrugged. “It’s too early to say.”
A medic turned to confront them. “You’ll have to leave now—a doctor will be out to see you.”