IT WOULD TAKE A FEW SECONDS

1563 4D

The afterimage of the mocked-up control room hung in Arlen‘s retinas; Carchesme gave a little whine of fear. “Bargaroth!” Arlen wheeled, reaching out with both hands.

“Yes, Arlen.” A chemtorch flared, and Arlen took its short handle in his fingers. “Someone has cut the power, apparently in one of the approach shafts. Smartfleche explosion.”

“Can you determine direction?” Evidently someone else, probably Durlow, was taking advantage of the empty ship — as usual, a step behind.

Bargaroth gestured to one of the Argaz, and they flowed past Arlen through the flickering green of the torchlight to the lift. He followed.

Behind him, Carchesme hissed, “Arlen, I didn’t come here to get shot or incinerated. I’m staying here.” The ship’s tiny, soft emergency lights began to come alive, casting a blue hazy light across the torch’s undulations.

“Fine.” Let the woman try to foul all this up. The aliens would have fun with her.

He led the Argazindari into the lift. The shudder of displacement took them to an empty, girdered level; two shudders later, Bargaroth‘s trackers stepped out into a short corridor. One held up a warning hand, signaling with stubby fingers; the others and Arlen froze.

“There’s a force entering the ship in the next chamber,” Bargaroth whispered. “Rebels.”

Rebels! This was desperation on their part — they’d been beaten, and now they wanted the ship as a hostage. “Take them.”

The Argazindari flowed easily forward, opened the door at the far end of the corridor, and oozed through it in utter silence. Arlen slid in behind them; they were in a large, vacant antechamber. On the other side of the room, a door opened slightly.

The Argazindari, motionless, had weapons out: beamers, wryshields, knives, stickweapons. The far side of the room filled with men and women in the dark gear of the insurgents, the bluish light glinting off helms as they looked around the room.

The Argazindari opened up. Arlen smiled as his forces spread along the room’s periphery, chopping and burning their way through the shouting and screaming rebels. Nothing could stop these men; nothing ever had. He unlimbered his beamer and scanned the battle. To his right at the far side, some Argaz went down in an ankle-level beamflash. Ah. An enemy with brains and speed. He ranged his beamer on a wiry figure just wheeling to the other side of the fight — there, several of the rebels had fallen on their beam-blasted faces.

His trigger finger froze for an instant; this man’s movements were familiar, even in a helm. Andrew Luce. What a welcome surprise. Arlen‘s weapon winked at him, confirming its target-lock, and he fired.

The shot missed. Arlen blinked; the figure was gone, suddenly appearing in a different place as if — oh, it was accelerated, and there was a second one doing the same thing. Damnation! Argaz were falling here and there, helpless. He fumbled at his waist, hit a button, strobed in his own accelerants. It would take a few seconds, and then he would be as fast. As Luce vaulted toward him like a bullet, he snapped off a shot.