Part 18: Passive-Aggressive

"Well," said Kang reluctantly, "it's not the worst plan I've heard."

"A half-witted plan now beats a brilliant plan tomorrow," Schuhart opined. "Questions?"

Rubin raised a hand. "Can you summarize it one last time, please?"

"Sure." The arms dealer plastered a ragged map against the side of his truck. "When the balloon goes up, our tanks commanded by the talented Mister Singh will rudely barge in from the north and east and engage the renegades' mechanized contingent. At the same time, diversionary teams will be inserted by boat and helicopter along the western shore. Meanwhile we'll approach from the south and try to slip past the enemy frontline. If we succeed, we'll head straight for the objective and reinforce the stranded party. If not, we'll find dig in and wait for the tanks to catch up... Ideally we'll be able to call in a pickup for the pinned unit once we've cleared the area, leaving us free to deal with whatever the renegades have left. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good." Schuhart folded up the map and pocketed it. "Let's go... Errol! Pay attention to where you're pointing that RPG!"

Richardson had left most of her equipment in the back of the truck, and consequently needed only to pull herself up and swing a leg over the side. Some of the others had been cautious or careless, and needed help reboarding the vehicle. The seating arrangement remained mostly the same, with Harrington across from her and Sauer at her right elbow. "All right," the latter muttered, flipping up the top cover on her .30 caliber, "now the real work begins." She laid the end of a cartridge belt in the open mechanism, closed the lid and thumped it. "It's-a showtime."

Richardson was about to ask what she meant by that, but Uncle Roland's voice stole her attention. "South Asia Consolidated is coming on to the field," he announced dramatically, speaking into a handheld radio. "I see the indomitable Coach Singh and Coach Khan at the front. Now the players are taking their places – the crowd's really going wild out here, folks... There's the starter's whistle, and the game has begun!" Dropping the radio, Schuhart quickly started the engine. "Now on BBC Two, ROLLING STUKA BANZAAAAAAAI!"

Bodies and armaments violently slid towards the rear as the pickup accelerated with breathtaking speed. Extricating her face from Sauer's modest cleavage, Richardson saw that the second truck had already fallen well behind as they zigzagged down the hillside road. She offered the other gosta an apologetic look while the girl straightened her shirt. "Uh..."

Sauer seemed unperturbed. "Here," she said, recovering her comrade's MP40 from where it had landed. "You watch the front."

"Oh boy." Keiko cranked the wheel one way and then the other, the engine whining as it struggled to meet her demands for greater speed. "Roland's doing his happy maniac act."

"I noticed." Kang clamped her carbine between her knees and flexed her fingers. "Has he been doing it often?"

The giantess shook her head. "This is the first time in months," she replied. "Used to happen a lot?"

"I saw it a few times." The colonel laid her weapon across her lap and began to inspect the reflex sight clamped to its top. "Sometimes I thought it was a tactic he used to confuse his enemies, and at others I wondered if it was actually a coping mechanism... Or maybe he really is mad, nothing more."

"Roland's a little mad." Keiko spoke as though she found this entirely unremarkable. "He exaggerates."

"A little mad." Kang wanted to laugh, but couldn't. "He's a little mad and he uses nuclear weapons. Does he sell them as well?"

"No," said Keiko, her tone completely serious. "We have rules about that. We don't deal in NBC material and we don't take payment in drugs, conflict diamonds, oil reserves, endangered species or human lives... We're not gangsters." She glanced at her companion before guiding the vehicle off the meandering road and onto a wide highway, the entrance to another underground tunnel visible in the rear-view mirror. "Better roll your window down now, or you'll have to shoot through it later."

"What's going on?"

"We've run out of time." The commander strode from one side of the debris-strewn room to the other, vibrant eyes inspecting the defenses critically. "Backup is inbound, but it's anyone's guess whether our ammunition will hold out long enough for us to meet them. The renegades are attacking from all sides."

Azanael flinched a little as something exploded outside. "How can I help you?"

"Here." The officer handed her a captured pulse gun and an armload of full cassettes. "I assume you remember these from basic training."

The pilot did, albeit vaguely. "I've always avoided fighting since I was discharged," she warned. "Don't expect anything great."

"We'll take whatever we can get," the commander said gravely. "Stay with the wounded. If we can't hold the alleys, you're their last defense."

"Oy, Roland!"

"Yeah?"

"Are we gettin' paid by the hour or no?"

"I'll think about it." Schuhart produced his broomhandle and popped out the magazine, steering with two fingers. "How about a bonus for coming back alive?"

"Ooh," said Phil. "Really?"

"Sure." The driver reloaded the Mauser with a magazine twice the length of the last. "If that's what it takes to keep you from doing anything crazier than normal." He laid the pistol on the dashboard. "There's the enemy line – in we gooooooo!"

Richardson had expected some kind of fortification, or at least some trenches and sandbag piles. What she saw, as the highway's leftward curve around the foot of the last hill fell behind them, was an open stretch of road with some sort of canal or waterway on the right side... and then the truck was weaving past idling hovercrafts and startled troops, Arume and forime alike. It took a few seconds for them to start shooting: the gosta ducked as something ricocheted off the edge of the cab roof. Streaks of violet seared the air. Phil was leaning over the side opposite herself and Sauer by the time the girl lifted her head, firing away with a wide grin.

Woomph!

Blue eyes snapped to the rear. One of the renegade hovercrafts was burning, drawing a wrinkled spiral of smoke in the air as it spun endlessly. Standing upright in the second truck, Errol Darwin balanced the empty rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his shoulder and thrust a triumphant fist into the air. "Roight inna tuckerbag, wankah!"

Schuhart must have heard that whoop despite all the other noise. "Australians," he proclaimed. "When you need to take ground fast, hold it to the last breath, and piss off every REMF in the regiment, accept no substitutes!" A bullet from ahead impacted the windshield, leaving a proverbial spiderweb of cracks. "Ack!" The monocular driver grimaced. "I just had that washed, jackass!"

"'Ere!" Phil fired, then ejected a casing. "Got 'im!"

"Richardson!" Suddenly Sauer was at her elbow, cradling the Browning. Once she had her fellow gosta's attention, she set the machine gun on end and motioned for Richardson to move to her left side. "Get ready!"

Get ready for what? Richardson didn't ask. Up front, the satphone began to ring again.

"Yeah?"

Renaril didn't waste an instant. "Mother's gone," she said. "What's happening?"

"Almost there," Schuhart announced. "Is the airlift ready?"

"Every detail."

"Good. Resistance thus far has been thin, so – waugh!"

The yelp summed up Richardson's own feelings pretty well. "Just lost a tire," Uncle Roland reported as he fought to keep the lurching, jolting truck under control. "I'll call you back when we're done, okay?" Dropping the phone, he put both hands on the wheel and pulled over to the right, braking gently. "Up and out, people!"

Phil took the order at face value, planting a foot on the sidewall and jumping right off the side. "Geronnymoo!"

Sauer tried to copy the move, despite her burden. "Garibald – oof!"

Richardson and the others waited for the tailgate to drop. Moving with alacrity born of thorough practice, she slung the Karabiner across her back, took her submachine gun in hand and disembarked from the stern with relative grace. "Uncle Roland, where do we go now?"

"That way." Schuhart pointed towards a nearby complex with four cruciform high-rise blocks. "Our objective is on the other side of the Sun Yuen Long Centre." The gosta's ears picked up a muted click as he fitted the end of the broomhandle's wooden box into a slot on the Mauser's grip. "Spread out, flanking formation on me. Go!"

"Fuck yeah." Phil's voice became deep and breathy, oozing exaggerated masculinity as he snapped the swordlike bayonet onto the end of his Lee-Enfield. "It's banana time."

"We're going to be dealing with the fallout from this for a looooong time," Eripol sighed. "By the way, Group Commander..."

Renaril's eyes were on the main display. She'd reduced the image resolution in exchange for better latency, and now blurred figures stuttered about in stop-motion. "Hm?"

"You agreed that our office would pay Eto Delo for help dealing with the renegades, but Schuhart never specified how much we'll be paying."

"That's right," Negadael concurred. "What if he demands some ridiculous figure? Or something other than money?"

"If he's the professional he claims to be, he won't do that. Otherwise, well..." The officer shrugged. "Let's hope Colonel Kang is a positive influence."

"Yeah." Eripol seemed less than convinced. "We're relying on 'hope' an awful lot these days."

"It's not the money I'm worried about," Renaril confessed. "It's those gosta he picked up."

"You're still going to pursue that?" Negadael frowned. "Forgive me for being contrary, Group Commander, but I cannot think it will improve relations."

"Nothing I can do." Renaril slouched in her seat, slurping from her half-drunk can of blended fruit juice with tepid enthusiasm. "You heard my mother."

"They may lose the war," Elaqebil commented wryly, "but not before they win the battle."

Azanael wanted to rebuke her friend for the show of pessimism, but couldn't go through with it. Not while her hands were white with the blood of the frail figure lying at her knees. "...Are you giving up?" she asked at last.

"Have I ever been a quitter?" The superintendent began crawling towards the pilot and her patient, a bandaged leg dragging behind her. Each movement was accompanied by a hiss of pain. "We're a long way from our own world, Flight Chief. There's still so much I want to do."

Azanael couldn't say the same for herself. There wouldn't be much left unfulfilled if she died here, in a stranger's abandoned shop a world away from home... No mountain of films she hadn't yet watched, no pretty girls she'd never gone out with, none of the things Elaqebil had to look forward to. To see her surrogate family again, was that alone too much to hope for?

Elaqebil wasn't finished. "You too," she went on, that familiar gleam of dogged persistence coming into her eyes. "Promise me that if you survive this, you'll go back to Kobe and – "

"Please," Azanael groaned, acutely aware of all the patients' eyes watching the two of them. "Don't start talking about how I need to make a child with my best friend."

She regretted her demand almost immediately. "I wasn't going to say that," Elaqebil mumbled. "Just that... you should try looking at her differently."

"Why?" The pilot drew the back of her arm across her forehead, leaving a sheen of sweat on her pale skin. "Why do you want Akane to be my lover?"

"Because I care," the superintendent answered bluntly. "If I didn't say anything, you'd turn into a miserable spinster... Maybe it doesn't have to be Kawashima, but you're already closer to her than anyone."

"We..." Azanael felt a reluctant heat in her cheeks. "We aren't that close..."

"No?" Elaqebil smirked knowingly, spirits rebounding despite her pain. "You worked a grueling job so that she'd have enough money to expand the restaurant. You slept with her on every night off you had. You went all the way together – "

"We were drunk!"

The Arume bureaucrat wagged a finger. "Don't they say alcohol brings out the truths we try to hide? I'm not saying you should jump on her at the very next encounter – just give her a kiss and let things go from there... I know she's already sympathetic, so what have you got to lose?"

It was alarmingly hard to think of a comeback when she put it that way. Azanael was relieved of her chance to respond by a despairing cry from the right side: "They're breaking through!"

It was met by a joyous shout from the left: "They're here!"

Kang had to admit that she was impressed by the gosta. After only a few days' training, they displayed a remarkable grasp of fire-and-move tactics and handled their equipment without fumbling or flinching. She suspected credit was owed to Keiko for the former skills and to Schuhart for the latter. She felt a new respect for the giantess advancing up the far side of the street, leading a squad populated by Errol Darwin, a gosta Bren operator and assistant, and two regulars. Her own group, made up of Karan, the other Bren pair and the last regular couple, watched from the shadows and waited for the enemy to appear.

"Eleven o'clock!" Keiko's warning preceded a series of crashing and cracking noises as a renegade hovercraft cut the corner at the intersection ahead. The colonel didn't have to give Karan a verbal order before he reacted to the threat. His rifle, a Hungarian beast loaded with 14.5mm exploding shells, slapped her eardrums twice: one shot for the pilot, one shot for the gunner. The hovercraft halted, bouncing a little when bits of the house it had plowed through began to fall. Kang kept the orange reticule of her carbine's sight centered on the upper hatch, but nothing emerged. Keiko also watched for a few moments, then flashed a hand signal – clear.

The Chinese soldier made a signal of her own and left her cover. She sprinted towards a sturdy-looking doorway and occupied it, bracing the M4's handguard against the edge of the frame as she resumed overwatch. The others followed singly or by twos, lingering just long enough to pack up. Judging by the sounds of ongoing battle, Schuhart's half of the strike force was making greater progress despite heavier opposition. Maybe that was why she wasn't dodging bullets or lasers or whatever right now.

"Sauer, cover the ground level! Harrington, watch the roof! Richardson, third-floor window, fifth from the left!"

The gosta had anticipated her cue. She extracted an Arume hand grenade from the pouch grudgingly supplied by Spiegel prior to departure, pulled out the arming ring at the top of the cylindrical body and twisted it to align the index marks for the shortest fuze time. Taking care not to touch the pressure-sensitive arming membrane in the recessed end cap, she then turned the explosive upside down and pushed it into the muzzle of the stubby launcher clamped to the rifle's nose. Careful aim and a blank cartridge did the rest of the work. The result was gratifying: an oblong section of wall was blown out completely, falling to the sidewalk in a shower of pulverized plaster.

"Good shot," Schuhart commended her. "You okay over there, Krieghoff?"

There was a walloping boom before that gosta replied. "I think I got one!"

"That's right," Phil crooned, adding another body to his already high count. "All aboard the happy train."

"Stopping at Shangri-La, Idiotsk, Boltford-on-Middlingshire and Podunkshaven," Schuhart supplemented dryly between machine gun bursts. "Captain, your impression of a fire hydrant isn't convincing me."

Isobael cast a hateful look at him as she abandoned her vantage point and crawled behind the gray sedan he was using for cover, but said nothing. Richardson had a feeling that it didn't really matter, not while the renegades were bottled up so thoroughly. "Uncle Roland, where should – "

She was cut off by an explosion somewhere to the left. "Fuck!" Errol bellowed indignantly. "Get back 'ere, yah leso hoons!"

"Oh no," his twin intoned. "Someone ate all the brekky."

The culprit was quickly revealed when a hovercraft missed the turn at the next junction, crashed into a shop's front door and reversed with difficulty. It seemed to take the crew a few moments to realize the path to safety did not lie unsecured. Richardson plunged a hand into her bag, searching for a bulb-headed shaped charge, but Schuhart motioned for her to hold fire. "Phil, perform the best song in the world!"

"Roight." The Australian set his rifle down, rose to his feet and loudly cleared his throat. Taking a second to compose himself, he launched into an energetic dance. "We're no strangers to looooove... You know the rules – and so do Iiiii... A full commitment's what I'm thinkin' of... You wouldn't get this from any other guyyyyy!"

Richardson stared. What sort of tactic was this? Looking from side to side, she saw that Isobael and the gosta were equally nonplussed, while Uncle Roland seemed to find the other man's antics amusing. "Sauer," she hissed, "is this what they call 'psychological warfare'?"

"I don't know..."

"...Iiiii just wanna tell you how I'm feeling... Gotta make you understaaand..."

As Phil danced and sang, appearing wholly oblivious to the machine of war sitting before him, Schuhart's phone lit up. "Yeah... What? Now? If you say so... No, we just arrived... Yeah, that's fine. 'Bye." Catching Richardson's eye, he shook his head. "Daebaril went over our heads and made a deal with the renegades... It ends not with a bang, but a whimper."

"...Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you..."

"So you're an arms dealer?"

"Yup."

"American?"

"Used to be."

"What are you now?"

"Grumpy."

Azanael flinched a little. Even if she were correct in keeping the details of her conversation with Kataphel to herself for the time being, she probably should have hinted to Elaqebil that it was best not to get too close to their rescuers... Not that her chubby friend was supposed to be hanging out with them anyway: Elaqebil had insisted that she could get to the landing craft on her own if only someone would give her a crutch, and promptly forgotten the first part of that statement as soon as the second part was granted.

"Everything all roight?"

Now one of them wanted to talk to her – even worse, it was the fair man with the funny accent who'd been singing and dancing when the battle ended. "I'm fine," she said quickly, hoping he'd leave her be so she could corral Elaqebil and get out of this insane place. "I just wanted to make sure I haven't forgotten anything."

"Gotcha."

The shapely Arume's difficulty in interacting with males surged to the surface. "Sorry for all the trouble," she said at length, having exhausted the selection of places she could pretend to search for misplaced belongings. Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize how pathetic they sounded.

The forime didn't appear to care. "No worries, mate. All in a day's work." He offered a smile. "I'm Phil."

"...Azanael."

"Noice name. Where yah from?"

"New Zealand." The native name of her homeland wouldn't mean anything to him, which was a pity because it was far more poetic.

"A Kiwi!" The man's aura of friendliness intensified. "Got yer own Cape Reinga, eh?"

"Yes..." Memories, happy memories for once, washed over her: hiking along a long dirt path, watching the sunset over the endless waters beyond land's end, lying intertwined with Onomil beside the place where two seas commingled in a grand metaphor of their own union.

"Always wanted to see it fer meself," Phil confided. "Me brother got some piccies afore the sea level rose an' buggered it, but that's just bodgy."

"I understand." Maybe. "It's like that in the second layer as well."

"What a beaut, an' now it's gone." Phil shook his head sadly. "Shame, innit?"

Azanael was nodding in agreement when Kataphel walked in. "There you are," she said. "The last transport is loaded. We'd better be going."

"Hooroo, then," said the extrovert. "Noice to see yer still aloive, Kate."

Azanael couldn't help but notice the knowing look Phil threw at Kataphel and the way the engineer tensed in response. Quickly hustling out the door, she found Elaqebil still chatting with the man in the badly dented helmet. His back was turned, reminding her that she'd never gotten a good look at his face – and that she didn't really want one. "Right now our biggest competitor," he was saying, "is the United States, no question. Russia, France and Germany are also big players... China was one until a few days ago, and I doubt it'll be long before it bounces back. Governments charge less, even nothing at all, but they attach strings and take sides. That's where private-sector resellers like us come in."

"So private dealers don't align with any faction in a conflict?"

"It varies... Our main rival, for instance, is a guy named Omar bin Salaad." The man pronounced the name with obvious dislike. "He can afford to be choosy because he runs his business from a very big yacht and has a finger in every pie between Madrid and Riyadh. We're just a barrels-and-bullets outfit with a couple of struggling PMCs tacked on, so we don't have that luxury."

Now or never, Azanael thought. "Elaqebil? Sorry to interrupt, but you're holding up the shuttle."

"Oops." Her friend offered a chagrined look. "I guess I have to go... Thanks for your time, Mister Schuhart."

"Not at all," the other replied affably. "Thanks for listening."

Elaqebil turned herself about and looked at Azanael expectantly. "Well, are you coming?"

"I'll be right there," the pilot answered evasively, changing from English to the comparative privacy of Arumic. "You go ahead."

"Humph." The superintendent set off with a pout, though Azanael knew it wouldn't last long. "You could have let me talk to him a little longer..."

Rolling her eyes, Azanael waited quietly until Kataphel emerged onto the street. "Let's go," the latter said shortly. "I was just tidying up."

"Sorry," the pilot responded automatically, following close behind. "Should I have not spoken to him?"

"Who, Phil Darwin?" The commando shook her head. "He's harmless... It was your friend I was worried about."

"That man was the leader?"

Kataphel nodded. "I was afraid she might rub him the wrong way."

Azanael moved to a flanking pace as the pair turned at the next corner. "Did you speak to him?"

"Just briefly. He asked if I wanted to trade my BAR for something newer."

"Ah... So what happens now?"

"I can't really say," the engineer admitted. "Even though we didn't lose anyone, we'll be out of action until the wounded recover... The aftermath of this farce will be dumped in Renaril's lap while the surviving renegades get off lightly, I'm certain."

"I expect so," said the pilot grimly. "Kataphel, why? Why is this happening?"

"You have to ask?" There was a sardonic laugh. "Isn't it obvious? We Arume have gotten greedy, overextended ourselves. We're trying to expand our empire without securing the colonies we already have. We don't have the strength to conquer this world or the know-how to cheat for it... There's a forime proverb which says those who don't learn from the past are condemned to repeat it." Kataphel's voice had become bitterly passionate. "It's the truth. Mariel understood that, but she's become impotent. Maybe Ekaril realized it as well."

"Commander Ekaril did?"

"I think so." They were catching up to Elaqebil now, and Kataphel lowered her voice accordingly. "I never knew her, so I can't say for sure."

This might be the last chance, Azanael realized, to ask what she couldn't speak of to anyone outside her adopted family. "Do you know anything about... about Mari?"

"I do," said the sapper. "All I can tell you now is that Wakatake and Sugawara are alive and well." She walked faster and faster, until Azanael was practically jogging to keep up. "For your own sake, don't go digging."

"Uncle Roland..?"

"No luck." Schuhart sounded disgusted. "It looks like Daebaril is the one pushing this, with Spiegel following along, but Renaril's not going to cut us any slack for your sakes."

Richardson had realized something was wrong when she and all the other gosta were quietly but inescapably herded together. The Arume and their collaborators hadn't found the courage to actually disarm the girls, but they had kept them encircled and carefully watched. Schuhart had arrived not long after the last of the transports flew away – the only cloud in the orange sky was the one over his head. "What about Colonel Kang?" she asked plaintively.

"The good colonel said I should know better than to leave unexploded ordnance lying about." The man's lip curled. "Not her exact words, but you get the idea."

Looking past him, Richardson could see Kang standing at the edge of the parking lot together with Spiegel, Isobael and a few others. The Chinese woman turned away when the gosta tried to meet her eyes.

"It's not fair," Astra declared. "We tried our hardest. We didn't do bad things. Why do we have to die?"

"It's not about you." Schuhart raised his voice a little, perhaps for the benefit of the onlookers. "The sky eyes are afraid of what would happen if your success became common knowledge... So they waited until we'd finished the heavy lifting for them and then sprang this little ultimatum on us: accept the final solution to the gosta question, or else the whole place burns faster than I can say Achtung – Flammenwerfer!"

Richardson hadn't feared death in battle or shied away from performing her duties under fire, but the knowledge that she and her sisters were expected to placidly accept their own termination was too poor a reward. "How could you!?" she shouted at Kang. "How could you stand there and let them do this!?"

"It's too late." Harrington's arms slid around her from behind, body pressing against body. "She won't listen." The sharpshooter lifted her face. "Uncle Roland, you said you looked out for your own crew... Can you abandon us without regret?"

"No." The cyclops watched as Spiegel's staff aide drew near, carrying a flat box. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm very proud of you all." He reached for his radio, prompting the collaborator guards to stiffen. "Cool it," the arms dealer growled. "I gotta call my crew and tell 'em not to worry when they hear the shots."

"Let him," Isobael advised. "We don't want any complications."

"Smartest thing you've said all day," Schuhart muttered caustically. "All units: Rule Three-Oh-Three, Unthinkable, oh-eight-hundred... Five minute fuze. Out." He put the transceiver away and zeroed in on the adjutant as she took out a compact white pistol. "What's that?"

"Tranquilizer," was the matter-of-fact reply.

"Does it only affect them? If not, watch where the hell you're pointing it." While the faintly irritated Arume loaded the launcher, he keenly regarded the officers. "Colonel, did you ever see A Better Tomorrow Part Two?"

"A long time ago," Kang confirmed warily.

Schuhart nodded. "Thought so... There was a scene where Chow Yun-Fat loads up a SPAS-Twelve right before some thugs attack him. Do you remember what he said?"

"No."

"You quoted it once, back in the good old days... He said – " There was a dull whock as Schuhart smashed the edge of his hand into the adjutant's neck, then a hard pschhht as a dart from the commandeered launcher penetrated Kang's skin. " – FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU!"

Harrington pushed herself forward, bringing Richardson down with her. Looking up, the latter saw Uncle Roland spin around. The Hi-Powers in his hands bucked, working parts slamming back and forth as he poured condensed fury onto those guarding the gosta. Releasing them the instant they ran empty, he seized another pistol and turned away. Spiegel went down, then another collaborator and then Isobael. Only Kang was left standing, staring numbly as the scene unfolded.

"Come on!" Sauer yelled as she rolled onto her stomach and sighted in on the enemy troops now coming to investigate. "Let's help Uncle Roland!"

Richardson was dumbfounded. Had their benefactor changed his mind at the last moment, or was his acquiescence to the Arume demands a deception from the start? She started to reach for her submachine gun, but remembered that it was completely depleted. Harrington came to the rescue by pressing a stack of charger clips into her hand: they were meant as an emergency reserve for herself and for Phil, but they would also fit Richardson's modified Mauser. Grabbing the rifle from its resting place, the gosta hastily set about unclamping the mounted grenade launcher.

The three machine guns roared for a short time, interspersed with singular rifle shots, before a strange quiet fell. Ramming her bolt closed on a live cartridge, Richardson adopted a kneeling stance and searched for a target. "What happened? Was that all of them?"

"All that I could see," Sauer returned. "Krag?"

"Nothing moving here."

"Johnson?"

"The same."

"All right... Let's get out of the open." Sauer pointed to the church which faced the west side of the parking lot. "That building should be adequate."

"What about her?" Mannlicher asked, indicating Kang.

"Uncle Roland must have left her alive for a reason," Sauer declared. "Let's make her our prisoner."

Support for this motion was plainly unanimous. As the gosta prepared to claim their captive, however, they became aware of new sounds of battle in the distance. "Wow," Rubin breathed. "Everyone is fighting back!"

"Comrades!" Schuhart's voice rang out nearer to the girls. "What saved us when we were betrayed in Old Tokyo?"

The reply came from several directions, though Richardson could distinguish only Keiko's voice with certainty. "We were saved by Rule Three-Oh-Three!"

"What did we do with those who betrayed us?"

"We got 'em and shot 'em under Rule Three-Oh-Three!"

"What do we invoke when we are imperiled by perfidy, treachery or treason?"

"We invoke Rule Three-Oh-Three!"

Richardson marched up to Kang and took aim at her heart. "Surrender," she ordered coldly.