Steven Price would be damned if one of those bastards from Third Jerusalem set foot on Planet Zavarov. He'd worked too hard and too long for his world's independence for it to be trampled by the Federation. He reached for his shotgun.
His hand never made it.
He'd be damned. That was about right, he thought, bleeding out on the shuttleport floor. All his hard work had been for nothing. Around him Federation soldiers took over everything he held dear.
Zavarov would be the birthplace of the greatest gunslinger the star cluster would ever know. But Price would never know.