Looking past the sentry, the speaker glowered at the pitiful Deyzara. “Step to left or step to right. Both steps make safe for you and me.”
Erla glanced back down at the huddled refugees. She did not think much of the Deyzara. Neither did she have any particular affection for the Sakuntala. But she was quite fond of her rank.
“How about you step back and they step forward? That’ll have the same result: nobody’ll get hurt, and whatever this is all about can be sorted out later.”
The Sakuntala hesitated. Nilsson’s eyes shifted slightly to the right and he raised the muzzle of his gun. “If you’re thinking of using that old shock rifle, big-ears, you’d better make sure you don’t miss with your first shot. Mine’s a stable repeater, and I could kill you and all five of your buddies before you have time to figure out what you did wrong.”
“Not to mention,” Erla added, tapping her chest plate, “that we’re wearing armor and you’re wearing fur. Take it from me: in a firefight, armor is better.”
Several of the Sakuntala fell to murmuring sharply among themselves. Disagreement was palpable. Finally they turned and, with a couple of murderous backward glances, loped back the way they had come, disappearing among the rain and the trees.
As bawling, appreciative Deyzara crowded close around him, pawing him with grateful two-digited hands, Nilsson barked into his pickup, “Fasoli, what the hell’s going on?” He tapped the tip of the lightweight pickup again, making it bounce slightly. “Fasoli, dammit!” The dispatcher didn’t answer.