The companions scattered to their chosen positions Ryan behind the water trough, Doc in a side street, hidden in the shadows of the rising sun, Krysty down the alleyway behind a pile of refuse near the garbage chute, Jak in the tack room amid the ropes and horse harnesses, J.B. in the horse corral. They laid out the extra clips, checking the grens in their pockets, and prepared for the onslaught of blue shirts.
They didn’t have long to wait before a platoon of sec men raced around the corner, blasters held at quarter-arms as if they were in a damn parade,
“Platoon, halt!” a sergeant called, raising a hand. On that cue, the six friends cut loose on full-auto, a deafening hellstorm cutting down the troops, their bodies jerking wildly under the hammering of brutal cross fire. The sec men died without firing a shot.
Ryan called a halt, and the companions moved across the cobblestones and spent brass, quickly relieving the bodies of spare clips and a surprising numbers of grens. Grabbing extra blasters, the friends moved quickly inside the fortress, giving the stolen military weapons to random members of the house staff, and shooting on sight anybody wearing the telltale blue shirt.
Rushing to a window, a young serving girl threw open the shutters. “Everybody listen! It’s here!” she yelled in delight to the people outside. “The revolution is finally here! Death to Overton!”
A blue shirt in the street fired his weapon at her, the string of rounds stitching a path across the stonework of the window, and the girl fell back with half of her head removed.
Screaming in rage, an elderly steward holding an AK-47 rushed outdoors and emptied the clip into the murderer, tearing the man apart into bloody gobbets until the weapon cycled dry. Panting from the adrenaline, the steward rushed to search the corpse for another clip. A chimney sweeper took the dead man’s longblaster. The two men exchanged looks, nodded and went their separate ways.
Cries were starting to spread throughout the streets, random sputtering of automatic blaster fire dotting the crisp morning air, and the fire bell stopped ringing. Soon it was replaced with the much louder danger bell, its brassy rings summoning every able-bodied person to come to the defense of the ville.
HIS BARE FEET PERCHED comfortably on a cushioned footstool, Overton carefully sliced a summer apple.
“Stop worrying, Ki,” he said, munching on the juicy piece. “I have the ville completely under my control. By the end of the week, I’ll be baron.”
Jian Hwa Ki took an offered slice and ate it without enthusiasm.
A soft pattering noise came from the courtyard below, followed by several screams, then silence.
“What the hell was that?” Ki demanded, rushing to the window.
With a shrug, Overton ate another slice of fruit off his knife. “My sec men executing a thief, or just target practice. Relax, old friend. Ryan is no more a danger to us than those serving wenches we bedded last night. Mine was pretty good, fought like a wildcat. How about yours?”
“There’s a lot of commotion,” Ki warned nervously, straining to see into the distance. “And smoke’s coming from the direction of the barracks. Mebbe we better sound the alarm.”
Overton rose languidly, brushing the sticky apple bits off his robe. “What kind of commotion?” he demanded, amused. “Anybody running around firing a blaster and throwing grens?”
Just then, the low boom of a gren shook the room, closely followed by the long rip of a blaster on full-auto. More blasterfire was followed by another explosion. The sounds of battle didn’t stop, but escalated in volume steadily.
Standing brazenly in the window, Overton spread his arms as if to embrace the world. “At last!” the big man shouted in delight. “The rabbits have finally been roused. The rebellion is here!”
Overton turned with a smile. “Colonel Ki?”
Bent over the desk, Ki was already at the radio, trying to contact the barracks. But the speakers only crackled with unmodulated static. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“Kill the hostages!” Overton snapped, pulling on pants, then boots. “Send off a pigeon to the cave and get us reinforcements, plus the LAV 25. Hell, both of them. All of the reserve troops, the heavy machine guns and the flamethrower. And tell the snipers it’s open season. They can shoot anybody they wish. Anybody not wearing blue, that is.”
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