The first laser bolt spun him sideways into a stack of crates. He caught himself against their metal sides, electricity crackling unheeded from his hands, turned to point at the soldier, using his finger as focus and guide for his power. Stored electricity leaped from the nearest output node, flashed along his arm and across the intervening meters to strike the laser’s powerpack. It blew in a sheet of flame, and the soldier fell, screaming. Harmsway caught his breath, aware of a new pain in his chest, tried to flex his shoulder and failed, and shrugged the other shoulder and kept walking, back toward the east entrance where the hunter had been waiting.

There were more of the Baron’s guard waiting around the next corner, crouched behind the shield of a heavy gatling. Harmsway took a deep breath that burned in his lungs, concentrated, and reached out for the gun’s control circuits. The guards fired in the same instant, a brief hail of lead before Harmsway found the gatling’s electronics and destroyed the system. They had barely had time to aim, but two of the bullets struck his hip and leg. He staggered against the nearest stack of crates, tried to take a step, and fell, sliding against the bare metal until he was barely sitting, propped up against the crates. The first of the two surviving soldiers leveled his laser. Harmsway fought back the pain, and reached for the nearest output node. He drew power from it, but his side and leg burned and throbbed, and the electricity streamed out uncontrolled, writhed across the intervening metal of the floor like a fiery snake. The soldiers fell back for a moment, but then the second man, better protected by the gatling’s smoking carcass, raised his laser again. There were more soldiers coming up the corridor behind him, and an airsled rode in their midst: the Baron himself was coming to see the end of the hunt. Harmsway braced himself to die.

Hazard rounded the last corner at that moment, and the soldiers swung instinctively to cover him. He took in the situation at a glance–Harmsway down, blood and burned flesh everywhere, the soldiers with leveled lasers and the rest of the troop coming up behind them–and started to raise his heavy laser for the last time.

“Don’t shoot,” a whispering voice said from the airsled’s closed cabin, and Hazard froze. Harmsway made a small, painful sound, but the voice went on anyway, as though no one had spoken. “Hazard, you’re not a fool. Put down your gun, and I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”

Hazard hesitated, the muzzle of the gun wavering slightly–to fire was suicide, his and Harmsway’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and his word could never be trusted.

“Your friend is badly hurt, maybe dying,” the voice went on. “But he could be saved. Put down your gun, Gallio Hazard, and I’ll see that he lives.”

“And me?” Hazard asked, with a short laugh.

“And you,” the voice agreed. “Both of you will live.”

“Why?”

“You’re running short of time,” the voice murmured, with a note like amusement, and Hazard shook his head.

“Why?” he said again.

“I need telepaths,” the voice said. “Electrokinetics of Harmsway’s talent are rare, to say the least; he may even be unique. You were not badly treated here, and if you cooperate, you can live quite well–you both can live quite well. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”

Hazard hesitated for a moment longer, then, very slowly, laid his laser on the tiles, slid it hard toward the waiting soldiers. “All right,” he said. “We surrender.”

“Excellent,” the voice purred, and changed instantly to a snap of command. “Medics, see to that man. You, guard, search this one properly.”

Hazard lifted his hands, and submitted to the search, watching over the soldiers’ shoulders as a medical team swarmed over Harmsway’s unconscious body, loaded it into a medsled, and sped away. The nearest soldier prodded him, and he forced himself to move, walking back toward the entrance and the long trek back to the prison complex.

–––

Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.28

There were only two guards by the cargo door, both staring nervously toward the sound of Harmsway’s attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final rack of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned to Africa. The man frowned, but slipped forward to join the rebel leader.

“You’re the best shot of all of us,” Avellar said, leaning close, his voice an almost soundless whisper. “Can you take them?”

Africa frowned. “Not with a pistol.”

Avellar made a face, but eased back into the shelter of the crates. After a moment, Africa followed, still frowning.

“Let me,” Faro said.

Avellar shook his head. Before he could say anything, Jack Blue interrupted.

“I can draw them out, Avellar. Leave it to me.”

Avellar looked uncertainly at him for a moment–a fat man, wheezing, leaning awkwardly on Lyall’s shoulder–but slowly nodded. “If you can lure them out here…”

“We can take them,” Africa said. “Can’t we, Faro?”

Lord Faro nodded, snapped the last power cell into the butt of his pistol.

“Do it,” Avellar said.

Blue closed his eyes, frowned, and let himself sink cross‑legged onto the tiled floor. Slowly, the frown eased away from his heavy features, and his hands lay lax on his thighs. A few moments later, something stirred in the corridor to their right: it sounded like someone walking, the heavy, uncertain footsteps of a wounded man.

Lyall said, almost in the same moment, “They’re buying it.”

The first of the guards peered out of the hatchway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely. Africa leveled his pistol, but Lord Faro laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Wait for the other one,” he said, very softly.

Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.

Blue was sweating lightly now, forehead furrowed in concentration. In the corridor, the footsteps faltered, something metal fell with a clatter, and then the footsteps picked up again, more slowly. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, then pulled the faceplate down again. Avellar held his breath, afraid to move. Very slowly, Lyall crossed her fingers, closed her eyes, and played out her minimal power the way a fisherman plays a line, easing out a tendril of curiosity to draw the guard toward the strange noises. The guard held up his hand at last, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa breathed a curse: the hatchway still blocked their shot.

“Wait for it,” Faro murmured, the words almost a mantra. “Wait for it.”

The guards stood still for a moment longer, visibly conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of the hatchway to cover him.

“Now!” Avellar said.

The others fired almost as he spoke. The second guard fell without a sound, crumpling back into the hatchway. The first guard spun around, staggered by the shot, but fought to keep his feet and bring his laser to bear. Africa fired again, and this time he went down.

“Did he warn the main party?” Avellar demanded, looking at Lyall.

The telepath shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then let’s go,” Avellar said. He looked down at Blue, who was slowly opening his eyes, extended a hand to help him to his feet. Faro did the same, and together they pulled the telekinetic upright. Belfortune stepped forward without a word, took Avellar’s place. He winced when his share of Blue’s weight hit him, but made no sound.

“Let’s go,” Avellar said again, and started across the open corridor toward the hatch. The others followed, Africa still with his laser at the ready, but nothing moved to stop them.