She also noticed that in the havoc of widespread fighting, criminals and thieves had lost focus of their original goal and had begun to brawl with each other. In total, Lancelot estimated there to be roughly fifty drunken brawlers in the melee. A pair of human men were knocked out cold by a Gthothch who in turn was jumped from behind by a Watchneen. Sparks flew from the stone alien’s skin as the Watchneen clawed it. A Feedorian brought a mini ion axe down on an alien who possessed only a partial skeleton, chopping off four of its tentacles.

  Lancelot did a quick scan to make sure there was no sign of J, then reached into her pocket and withdrew the plasma grenade. She turned a small switch to change its setting from timer to impact, then threw it as hard as she could. Instead of sending it directly at the crowd, however, she sent in almost straight up in the air. It would land only twenty or thirty feet away from where she currently stood, near the edge of the fighting, but it would also take out many of the aliens fighting near Traskk. She could have thrown it to the far side of the fighting but J and everyone else would see which way the explosion had come from. Instead, with all the strength her Carthagen armor provided, the explosive sailed hundreds of feet up in the air, with only a slight angled trajectory to get it closer to the fighting. By the time it landed, she would be in the alley behind the bar where J was situated, and the grenade would look as though it had dropped straight out of the sky. The already lawless streets would turn into bedlam. J, if the android was near the door of the bar, would look for an escape route and she wanted to be there when it tried to run.

  Without waiting to watch the plasma grenade explode, Lancelot was sprinting again.

  58

  From the doorway of the bar J was standing in, the android watched the free-for-all and bedlam unfold. What had started out as a simple group murder had escalated into sheer anarchy in the streets of Folliet-Bright. A Basilisk slammed his tail into a human with enough force to drive him across the street and into a wall. The reptile then tackled a Ram-Don so hard its shell cracked. Before the Ram-Don had a chance to protect itself, the Basilisk was tearing at it with his claws and fangs. But that was only a tiny part of the fight. Thieves, pirates, and drunks were fighting each other with the sole purpose of inflicting more violence on those around them than they themselves received. Only a few of the people still conscious even knew of J’s initial reward. The rest fought for the enjoyment and violence.

  Nor was the fighting limited to the street anymore. Someone was on top of a bar across the street and was firing a pair of blasters into the crowd. The shooter didn’t seem to be saving friends or fighting for a certain side—he just liked having an excuse to send lasers into the crowded street. Someone else had a thermo launcher and was sending fireballs onto the sidewalk. The situation was getting out of control.

  J’s risk avoidance programming had determined that the android’s chances of jeopardizing its mission had been surpassed. Rather than hire the mercenaries it had come to recruit for another of Arc-Mi-Die’s jobs, it would make sure the creature that was following it was killed. After that, J would head to another of the warlord’s preferred business locales on a different planet.

  J was just about to turn and leave through the back exit of the bar when a plasma grenade hit the ground in between the doorway the android was standing at and the main group of fighters. Sizzling blue gel sprayed everyone nearby with burning, gelatinous energy. A Gthothch, already on the ground and unconscious, was engulfed in it, his granite skin sparkling with the energy. A human next to him was thrown sideways by the blast, all of his hair scorched and his skin smoking. For a second, the fighting in the street paused so everyone could see what had happened. Just as fast, the violence resumed again.

  The sudden flash of energy near J impaired the android’s sensors and made it stumble backward the way a human would if accidently staring directly at an intense sun. Its eyes turned bright white as its auxiliary power flashed on. It stayed that way for a minute, just long enough for J’s processors to reset.

  The android was halfway to the rear exit of the bar when the bartender stepped in front of him with a double-barreled blaster. It was pointed directly at J’s chest.

  “You promised that gang a reward. You best pay up before you leave.”

  J stared at the bartender, a middle-aged human-Jungston hybrid. The bartender’s large black eyes stared back.

  In one motion, J stepped sideways, grabbed a chair, and swung it at the blaster. The weapon went off with a flash of energy. Two streams of laser hit the floor where J had been standing a second earlier. The wood floor was incinerated and sent a giant puff of sawdust into the air. The next swing of the chair came down on the bartender’s head, sending him to the ground.

  J darted through the back hallway and pushed the door open. Compared to the noise and violence in the front of the bar, the back alley was nearly silent.

  Before it could turn and begin back toward its vessel, two waves of mist came at it. One was parallel with the ground and approached J’s neck. The other was perpendicular to the ground and was going to cut the android in half.

  In a fraction of a second, millions of processes fired within J’s central computer. Their conclusion was that the android was going to be killed or captured. Seeing as how it contained information that could lead back to Arc-Mi-Die and was programmed with preservation software on its master’s behalf, the automatic self-destruct was triggered less than a tenth of a second after registering the threat.

  In a flash of pure energy, the center of J’s chest erupted into an atomic blast that would be strong enough to level everything within twenty feet. The back half of the bar would be rubble. The dumpster in the alley would be gone. As would the four-armed and four-legged creature standing only feet away with a pair of Meursaults in hand.

  59

  The Juggernaut continued to creep across the 16-D-10 sector. Each time it passed a colony, the four mechs were released from the mighty craft’s hangars and descended to the surface to destroy every bit of life.

  When all communications were lost with the tiny outpost on 16-Centura, everyone knew the planet had fallen silent because of the Hannibal. When the pair of colonies on the frozen moon, 16-Conical, stopped communicating with the rest of the galaxy, it was assumed everyone there was dead as well.

  Lieutenant Ruins was on the far side of the sector, at the cluster of colonies located on the volcanic planet, 16-Tuero. Ruins knew what that meant: the Hannibal were approaching.

  After that, the invaders would leave 16-D-10 and enter the Thurndorian sector. There, at the edge of what had once been part of the Vonnegan Empire, Brigadier Desttro was rallying a fleet of Round Table ships. That collection of flagships was only one sector away, but to Lieutenant Ruins it felt much further.

  He wasn’t in command of an Athens Destroyer or a Solar Carrier or any other type of King-Class flagship. Instead, he was the senior officer on an Athens Cruiser. It was half the size of a Destroyer and carried a third of the armaments.

  If the approaching Juggernaut had defeated three flagships without much effort, he didn’t like the chances of his Cruiser doing anything but getting obliterated in quick fashion. It was for this reason that he shouldn’t have been surprised when the next order came through.

  The holographic image of a Round Table officer said, “Brigadier Desttro is ordering all Round Table ships in the 16-D-10 sector to leave their posts and rendezvous at our coordinates in the Thurndorian sector.”

  Ruins had been expecting as much. Part of him was surprised it had taken so long. Instead of agreeing or disagreeing with the order, he replied that his command had been to protect the colonies at 16-Tuero. He then asked the holographic face what he should tell the people down there.

  The officer, a Gthothch with medals decorating both shoulders, said, “Tell them to evacuate. Everyone should consider boarding a vessel and leaving the sector until we have confronted the Hannibal.”

  Lieutenant Ruins thought about how many people were down there and how few of them were likely to own a craft of their own or know someone who did.

  “Shall I coordinate an effort to use our cargo bays as camps for anyone without a means of leaving the colonies?”

  “Negative. Your orders are to proceed directly to Brigadier Desttro’s coordinates to prepare for battle. There will be no time to safely deliver civilians to a location outside the sector. You’d just be taking them into battle with you.”

  Lieutenant Ruins wanted to say, “Isn’t that better than abandoning them? At least then they would have a chance.” Instead, he nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

  The hologram disappeared and Ruins went back to looking out the viewport of the Cruiser’s command deck. Down on the surface of 16-Tuero, swirls of red and orange were dotted with islands that contained life.

  Without turning toward his comms officer, Ruins said, “Send the order to every colony down there. Tell them to evacuate the planet if they want to live.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In a matter of minutes, it would be everyone for themselves. There would never be enough ships in the spaceports to get everyone to safety. Without someone in charge, there also wouldn’t be a coordinated effort to effectively use the few ships that were available, meaning many more would be stuck down there than was necessary. Some people, concerned only for themselves, would dash from the colony with otherwise empty ships. Vessels with enough space to hold ten or a hundred passengers would carry a pilot and co-pilot and no one else.

  A husband and father, desperate to keep his family safe, would surely kill the first pilot he found in order to steal his spacejet. Others would hand over their life’s savings in order to secure safe passage. Some wouldn’t have a ship or the money to buy a way off the planet. Without a chance of getting away, they would begin to find the best hiding spots possible and hope the Hannibal’s mechs missed them.

  Originally charged with the safety of these people, Ruins was now leaving all of them to die at the hands of an unknown enemy. He knew it and everyone on the command deck knew it. The worst part was they also knew that staying was pointless. His ship wouldn’t be able to put up a portion of the fight that the two Athens Destroyers and Solar Carrier had mustered. If he thought there was even a minor chance he could do something, he would have considered disobeying orders and keeping the people down on 16-Tuero safe. It would be worth the court martial and the loss of his career if he could keep thousands of people alive. It was wishful thinking, though.

  Turning to his nav officer, Ruins said, “Get us to the muster point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moments later, the Cruiser powered up its engines and began to glide away from the planet.

  60

  There were still shouts along the main street where Traskk had been fighting. He was no longer a part of the brawl, however. Even before the plasma grenade had gone off and taken out a segment of the mob near him, he had been struck by three different laser blasts, been stabbed in his tail with an ion knife, and had a Checknago—an alien with thick leathery skin and a long snout—clamp down on one of his arms with its powerful jaw. Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, he had barely noticed any of the injuries. In return, he had killed all of the aliens with blasters, taken off the arms of the man with the ion knife, and broken the jaw of the Checknago.

  The explosion behind the bar across the street, though, was powerful enough to shake the ground and break him out of his bloodlust. Black smoke streamed up into the sky. In the midst of the fighting, he realized it had been a couple minutes since last seeing Lancelot.

  The tremors from the blast were so strong that he would have swore someone had fired a proton torpedo into the middle of the busy colony. The thing that made him break from his adrenaline filled wrath was that the explosion obviously wasn’t part of the free-for-all in the street. Something else was going on.

  Running through the entrance of the bar, he saw the bartender sprawled on the ground, motionless. A rodent, the size of a human child, was standing on its hind legs, loading a duffel bag with the most expensive bottles the bartender kept stocked. The little thief, startled, jumped and let a pair of sparkling blue bottles fall to the ground where they shattered. Traskk gave the alien a low hiss as he passed on his way to the rear entrance.

  It was easy to know he was in the right place—the spot where the explosion had occurred—because the entire back portion of the bar was missing. The wall, reinforced to withstand break-ins, was rubble. A few small fires were burning under pockets of rock and twisted metal.

  Walking over the scrap, Traskk saw a dark shadow burned into the ground. He had seen the same thing enough times to know what had happened. The shadow was the exact location where someone had been incinerated. Given his surroundings, he thought it likely that either a bounty hunter had collected a prize or someone had blown themselves up to avoid a worse death.

  A step away, he saw the charred remains of bronze and brown armor and let out an involuntary hiss of panic. He had only just met the woman with blond hair but she was a link to Vere and might also be his first true friend in years. He didn’t want to lose her. With a swipe of his tail, he pushed away concrete and metal debris. Even before he turned her over, he knew it was going to be bad. The amount of Carthagen armor scattered about the wreckage told him that much, as did the extent of the structural damage to all of the nearby buildings.

  Leaning over, he dug his claws under her shoulders and gently flipped her so she was laying on her back. Blood was everywhere. One of her shorter arms, located above her waist, had been completely blown off. The other was still attached to her torso but was caked with black residue. It crumbled when one of his claws touched it. Parts of her armor plating were scorched and smoking. Other pieces had been so thoroughly destroyed that entire segments were gone, revealing pale human skin underneath. On her helmet, the left portion of her visor and face guard were gone, and Traskk imagined that she must have turned her head a split second before the blast. The parts of her face that he could see, her cheek and eye, the bridge of her nose, were either caked with blood or dust or both. He thought it likely that her major organs would be okay because her upper two arms had come up in a defensive posture in order to take the brunt of the blast. As a result, both were stripped clean of any armor protection and were severely burned and covered with melted flesh.

  “Did I get it?” she mumbled, and he let out a surprised hiss at her still being conscious, let alone coherent enough to speak.

  At first, he thought she was asking if she took the direct impact of the explosion. Maybe she had a dark sense of humor like Morgan. Part of him suspected, from the way she didn’t open her eyes, that she wasn’t talking to him at all but to someone else.

  Then he realized his mistake. Her upper two arms weren’t protecting her heart or any other part of her body. They were hugging something to her chest. Traskk reached down to see what it was. Even in her weakened state, Lancelot groaned and tried to keep hold of the object.

  “It’s okay,” he hissed in Basilisk, doubting her helmet translation software was still working. “I just want to see what it is.”

  She relented, either because she was too badly injured to put up a fight or because Vere had said Traskk could be trusted. As gently as he could, he pulled one injured arm away from her chest. Then the other. Her arms relaxed and Traskk looked at the object she was clinging to.

  An android’s head.

  61

  Talbot didn’t expect his father to have time for him. One enemy was approaching in a giant vessel and destroying everything in its path while another was hiding and terrorizing random spots of the galaxy. All of it fell on Julian’s shoulders. After all, he was the hero of the people, the Terror of the Cartha Sector, the man who many begged to lead the Round Table, the owner of the Sword in the Stone. As a result, more and more people were calling on Talbot’s father to become the leader of the Round Table. Every time Talbot saw his father, someone was visiting to offer Julian advice or to make a request. Entire days were spent that way.

  Although Talbot didn’t care about the fleet or the representatives, he did keep track of who stopped by to speak with his father. Most often, it was Octo and Winchester. As the days went by, however, more representatives sought an audience and asked Julian to lead them. When Octo visited he made sure to close the door to Julian’s study. Almost everyone else who met with his father felt free talking with the door open. It was impossible for Talbot not to notice the distinction and wonder what Octo was saying that required secrecy.

  With each passing day, the Hannibal were closer to Edsall Dark and the future of the entire Round Table was at greater risk. At the same time, Arc-Mi-Die was clearly becoming impatient or else more insane. Some people might be able to convince themselves that the warlord was running out of Excalibur ships and, even if the Round Table didn’t do anything, it would be a matter of time until Arc-Mi-Die was no longer able to menace the galaxy. Most people, however, knew that just because he might one day run out of legendary ships to use as bombs didn’t mean he would quit his maniacal ways. He would simply switch tactics and go back to kidnapping people or else come up with some other way of destroying colonies and instilling fear.

  That was surely why so many different representatives visited Julian each day. They had varying approaches of conveying the same idea, but the message was always the same: Help us by becoming the leader of the Round Table. If not permanently, then at least until the imminent threats had passed.