“You didn’t remember,” he sang softly. “But I told you ten years ago that if you ever pointed a blaster at me again, you had damn well better use it, or I would use mine. Forgot, didn’t you? That’s a bad habit for a would-be baron.”
William spit blood at the old man, hitting his cheek. The baron laughed and fired into the man’s temple, exploding his head like a crushed egg.
“Forgetting a threat is almost as bad as forgiving an enemy. We rule by strength, not honor.” The baron chortled through his nose, wiping the rivulet of snot on an encrusted sleeve. He repeated the phrase in a singsong voice, dancing a little step. “Forget, forgive, forget, forgive! Both of those won’t let you live!”
Suddenly, sec men in liveried uniforms rushed from the bushes with a wide assortment of blasters in their hands. The officers held M-16s, the sergeants bolt-action longblasters and the privates all carried shotguns. There were no homemades. This was the baron’s private guard, and they used only the very best his ville owned.
“Are you okay, my lord?” a burly sergeant asked, walking closer.
“Fine, fine,” the baron said, bolstering his weapon, then quickly drawing the piece to reload. Spent shells were suicide in Deathlands. John Henderson knew he was slightly insane, but he refused to become stupid. “My grandson and I had a discussion over whom should be the baron,” the old man lied smoothly, sliding fresh shells into the revolver’s cylinder. “I was asked to go into the bushes and retire myself. I told the boy no, and he accepted it with grace, dignity and honor.”
Closing the blaster, Henderson tucked it inside his undamaged pocket. “You!” he snapped to a sec man. “Get me another suit!”
“Yes, my lord.” The private saluted and dashed away.
The rest of the troops stood where they were, waiting for orders from their baron. He reeked like a used lav, and often chilled without reason, but aside from this one time, he had never lost a battle. The sec men had discussed the matter in detail days earlier, and rather than become coldhearts and attack farms, they would stay with the madman and see if he could get them another ville.
Henderson saw the decision in their face and approved. “By the way,” he said, “did my grandson actually set loose the whore the guard was humping in the woods while my ville was being destroyed? He didn’t really do that, did he?”
Averting their faces, the officers and privates mumbled assorted things under their breaths. Only a huge sec man spoke out loud and clear. “Why, yes, sir , he did. Never could figure out why, but it’s not my place to question a superior.”
“Sergeant, aren’t you?” the baron asked, squinting up at the giant.
“Sergeant Thomas Smith, my lord.”
“So tell me, Thomas, exactly how many other officers survived the attack? I only had twenty men with me when I went hunting that day.”
Smith didn’t correct the baron about being an officer. “Another five officers, my lord, and fifty more men were out fishing, or on patrol in the woods.”
“Seventy troops, half dozen officers,” Henderson muttered. “My grandson was my sec chief, and he turned traitor. I need a new commander of the troops. Okay, big boy, now you’re it.”
“Sir?” the sergeant asked, stunned.
The baron stared hard. “Don’t make me think this is a mistake,” he warned, resting a hand on his blaster. “Can’t run a war by myself. Plus, I need an heir to carry on the Henderson name. My grandson committed suicide by challenging me. I’m offering the post to you, heir to the throne of well, whatever ville we take over next. Yes or no.”
“Yes,” the sergeant said quickly, bending to a knee, “Father.”
The baron chuckled softly. Even down on one knee, the bastard slab of beef was still taller than him. The freak had to be seven feet high! In a battle everybody would ignore the old man and concentrate on the giant. He was perfect cannon fodder. Yet there were more than muscles stuffed between his lumpy ears. He had answered without question or pause.