“Thank you, sir,” he gushed, bobbing his head like a parrot. “Hail to the lord baron!”
“Enough,” Brandon said, waving him away. “Who’s next?”
Suddenly Somers understood what was happening and glowered in suppressed fury. The bastard was stealing his people away right in front of him! His mind whirled with some way to turn this to his advantage and failed. That fat bastard on Maturo had won another battle without firing a shot. Curse him to hell.
Avarice on his features, a teenager forced his way from the crowd, and a reeking fisherman was next. Then more, even some of the local baron’s own troops. The pile of flesh grew one bloody gobbet at a time, and soon every hand in the ville was smeared with fresh blood.
Brandon was pleased. Tortured by his own kin. Now the locals would never trust one another again, and would watch for any signs of research or science. This island would offer no more trouble to the lord baron for years.
Finally the ragged body on the stone column went limp, and gore ceased to flow from the endless cuts. A single eye stared from the skinless face, and what remained more resembled a decaying carcass than anything born human.
“Satisfied?” Baron Somers asked gruffly.
“Not quite,” Brandon said, placing aside a cup of wine. “There is the still the matter of his workshop.”
Somers grunted. “We’ll burn it, of course.”
“No need,” said the officer, raising a fist high overhead, then opening it twice.
Immediately there were flashes from the PT boats moored at the dock, and moments later a flurry of screaming objects trailing fire whooshed by overhead, their contrails bathing the ville in bloodred light Moving almost faster than vision could follow, the Firebirds zigzagged over the jungle, climbing toward the cleft in the hill. Then they separated, one going directly for the predark bungalow, the other for the disguised garage.
The double explosions shook the landscape, merging into a huge fireball that rose on a glowing mushroom cloud into the sky. The people of the ville cowered at the sight, even the baron looking ill at ease, his sec men shuffling their feet nervously. Armed with blaster and knives, this was something beyond their comprehension. Many heard tales of what a Firebird could do, but the sight of that mushroom cloud, the ancient symbol of skydark, was more intimidating than any beating or verbal threat.
Watching their reactions, Brandon raised his hand again, and two more rockets streaked by to finish the job of removing the secret workshop from the face of the island. As the concussions faded away, the top of the hill was sliding down over the wound, and the tress were burning for dozens of yards in every direction.
“Now I’m satisfied,” Brandon said smugly, then turned to address the baron directly. “However, I expect no more unpleasantness, or else I will be forced to return and use… extreme measures of justice.”
“Fair Steven,” Somers said, managing to smile, forcing his hands to stay at his sides and away from his blasters. That any man could talk to him in such a way, inside his own ville, was maddening, intolerable. Yet he had no choice but to obey. He was bound to life even as Wof had been shackled to the stone.
“Anything for my good friend Baron Kinnison,” he added in feigned politeness.
“That is Lord Baron Kinnison!” the lieutenant snapped. “And don’t you forget it again!”
A furious sec man standing next to the baron started forward, and Somers held him back with a gesture. With those triple-damn boats in the cove, the Maturo sec man was untouchable. “Yes, of course,” Somers spoke coldly. “Lord Baron Kinnison.”
Glancing at the corpse, Brandon saw it was now covered with a black coat of crawling flies. “Burn that,” he ordered, then turned and walked casually from the ville.
Moving quickly, his sec men claimed the few remaining bags of black powder, folded the card table and followed quickly after their chief. Behind them, Baron Somers started calling for wood, and a pile began to build around Wof’s tattered remains.
Wary of the dark shadows in the bushes, Brandon strolled back to the dock, a hand always on his blaster. Never trust others was his first rule of survival.