Ishimoto-Seven came to his feet. His fingers opened and closed. "I didn't come here to take insults from corporate whores! Perhaps Citizen Quinn would like to take it outside, where I would be pleased to kick his pompous ass!" Usmos started to intervene, but Luton beat her to it. His voice was low but carried to every corner of the room. "Stow the bullshit". The room fell silent as the officer stood and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were like lasers and probed the faces around him. "Let's get something straight.... Every damned one of you has an axe to grind. Fine. I accept that. But nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to happen unless my people put their lives on the line and manage to win one hellacious battle. "If we survive, if we win, the lot of you can squabble over who gets what, so long as you remember one important fact: We have the weapons, we have the know-how, and we have the final say. Question

The officer, not wanting to appear frightened, sent Martin a dirty look, made a note to get even, and opened the door. The tarmac was so hot he could feel the heat through the bottoms of his boots.Daniell waited for a dilapidated cargo car to pass, followed the faded yellow line out to the fly form, and mounted the aluminum stairs. Chances were that Marco would be pissed and looking for someone to crap on.Daniell plastered his best shit-eating smile across his face, stepped into the relatively cool interior, and called the officer's name. "Colonel Marco? Mayor Daniell here, come to pick you up".The response came from speakers mounted at the front of the cabin. "This is Lieutenant Morris, sir... The colonel left". "Left?" Daniell asked. "How? Where?" "Sorry, sir. I don't know". "What about the prisoner? A corporal named Sparrow?" "Don't know, sir. The two of them left together?

There was a loud thump. Marco turned to find that his other ground pounder, Captain Simon Olmsted III, commanding officer of D Company, 2nd REP, was facedown on the table. A steady expanding red stain indicated where his wine had gone. No one seemed surprised. That spoke volumes... And Marco made a note.The next officer, Captain Gandhi NY, was something of a surprise. Given the fact that there was no way in hell that her ten-ton, tractorlike body was going to fit inside the mess, and the rest of the officers weren't likely to dine in her vast underground garage, the cyborg had elected to have her brain box delivered to the table.And not just delivered, but delivered on a silver tray, which Marco found to be vastly amusing. It spoke of style, courage, and a good sense of humor.NY's brain box, which was covered with a custom-tailored dress uniform, plus rows of decorations, was equipped with a vid cam as well. It whirred as it pann

Once recovered from the trauma of losing both the Pelocan and the drifter, Jyro found life on the Shem vessel to be unexpectedly serene. The days, as recorded as scratches in the ship's hull metal, seemed to drift by.For the first time in years the human found himself with plenty of time to think and reflect. In fact, had it not been for the certainty that he would eventually run out of food, the experience might have been rather pleasant.Jyro followed a self-imposed routine that provided a modicum of both structure and comfort. His body clock woke him at approximately 0800 each morning. Never one to lounge about, the prospector rolled out of his improvised bag and onto the cold metal deck. The calisthenics included thirty-five push ups, followed by thirty-five leg lifts, thirty-five sit-ups, and thirty-five additional push-ups.Once the exercises were complete, there were prayers to say, not the repetitious sort of nonsense favored by his father, but long, one-sided conv

It was dark, and the lights of Los Angeles looked like gems scattered on black velvet. Thousands of grav platforms, robolifts and aircars crisscrossed the local sky grid. No one paid any particular attention to the unmarked personnel carrier that rode a priority vector in from the east, dropped out of traffic, and landed on a high rise. Three men exited the aircraft. It was gone moments later. John Usmos shivered in the early morning air. His fatigues had the word "Prisoner" stenciled on the back, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and chains rattled at his feet. His excort consisted of two MPs, neither of whom was much of a conversationalist. The first, an individual whom John had christened "Dickhead", motioned toward a sudden rectangle of light. "Put your ass in gear, John - we haven't got all day". No "sir", no "please", just "put your ass in gear". But that's how it was for prisoners, especially those who were or had been officers. John e