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  “Speaking of steps forward,” the senator said, “what do you think should happen to Maker’s alien pet?”

  Everyone at the table suddenly seemed to perk up even more. If they were captivated before, they were completely engrossed now.

  So this is it, Browing thought. The real information they’re after.

  “Erlen’s not a pet,” Browing swiftly replied, surprising himself since he had generally referred to Maker’s exotic alien companion by that term in the past.

  “What is it, then?” the senator asked.

  “It’s Niotan,” Browing answered. “From a planet called Niota, according to Maker.”

  “So it says in your report,” Lafayette chimed in. “But leaving aside what you consider to be fact for a moment, what’s your honest opinion of this creature?”

  Browing frowned in concentration. He needed to choose his words here very carefully.

  “I’d say he’s singularly unique,” Browing offered. “And quite possibly a higher lifeform.”

  There was stunned silence for a moment as his words sank in.

  “A higher lifeform?” Steiner blurted out incredulously. “This thing goes around licking the ground!”

  “It’s a living chemical factory,” Browing explained. “It can synthesize and reproduce almost anything it tastes, so licking things is in its nature.” He didn’t add that Erlen also had papillae on his footpads, which meant that the Niotan could also taste things just by touching them.

  They can read my report – instead of some underling’s summary – if they want the nitty-gritty details, he thought.

  “So what kind of value would you put on something like that?” Goya inquired, interrupting Browing’s thoughts.

  “With respect to Erlen, I would posit that he’s invaluable,” Browing declared.

  “In that case,” uttered Grasso, “is Maker the best person to be taking care of him?”

  Browing shrugged. “He’s done a pretty good job so far.”

  “No doubt,” Grasso agreed, nodding. “But you’ve just described Maker’s unit as being exceptionally talented. You also designated this alien Erlen as an incomparable asset. Bearing those facts in mind – and in light of his penchant for, shall we say, unwonted tactics – are they best utilized in the hands and under the authority of someone like Maker?”

  “Hmmm,” Browing mumbled, appearing to think on the question. “Regarding his team, in my opinion they’re all pieces from different puzzles. Even though they aren’t supposed to, they somehow fit together perfectly under Maker” – he interlaced his fingers for effect – “with the whole turning out to be greater than the sum of its parts.”

  “Are you saying that they would be ineffective under someone else’s command?” queried Steiner.

  “Not at all,” Browing insisted, “but you have to understand that these were people whom the military was ready to throw away, misfits who didn’t fit in anywhere. Maker didn’t just give them a second chance – he gave them purpose, believed in them. More to the point, his faith in them is reciprocated tenfold by their faith in him. The result is that they put forth a hundred-and-ten percent on every assignment.”

  “And you don’t think they’d do that for another commander?” Goya asked.

  “Actually, I think they would,” Browing countered. “But for Maker, they’ll always do more. For him, they give something extra – something that can’t be defined or quantified. Frankly speaking, I think they’d rather die than fail him, and that level of devotion not only increases the value of what they bring to the team but also gives Maker a considerable edge.”

  “As to Erlen,” Browing continued, “even if I agreed that he should be under someone else’s care – which I don’t – I’m not sure how you could effectuate that. Maker will never give him up willingly, which means you’ll have to go through Maker to get him, and that’s going to cost you an army. He will litter the landscape with bodies before letting you lay a finger on the Niotan. And even if you get past Maker, there’s Erlen himself to deal with. Just so you’ll know what to expect in that regard, he’s got claws that will slice through flesh and bone like they’re made of water. He can cough up an acidic compound that will eat through steel. He can breathe out poisonous fumes that will kill you in seconds. And all of that is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  There was a momentary silence while everyone absorbed what Browing had just said.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here,” Grasso stressed after a few seconds. “No one’s talking about breaking up effective units or forcibly taking possession of anyone or anything. We’re simply getting an assessment of certain individuals.”

  “Fair enough,” Browing noted.

  “Now,” Grasso went on, “based on what you just said and prior reports, it sounds like Maker may not necessarily be the type to obey orders.”

  It wasn’t posed as a question, but all eyes in the room were on Browing, clearly anticipating a response.

  “That’s not how I’d put it,” Browing said. “Based on what I’ve observed, I’d say he’s a loyal and devoted Marine whose first instinct actually is to obey orders. However, he doesn’t simply check his brain at the door. I think when it appears that a situation has changed, he feels confident with improvising rather than blindly following orders that may get him or his people killed.”

  “Sounds like you admire him,” noted the senator, “which would be a notable about-face from your early reports, when you said his nicknames of ‘Madman’ Maker and ‘Maniac’ Maker were well-deserved, albeit understatements of the truth. Are you two friends now?”

  “Ha!” Browing barked humorously. “I’d say there’s mutual respect between us and we generally speak in cordial tones to each other, but calling us friends would be a bit of a stretch. That said, if I were in trouble and could cherry-pick one person I could call for aid, it would be Lieutenant Arrogant Maker.”

  Chapter 2

  The ambush happened pretty much in the exact spot where Maker expected it: a secluded area of the park that he had recently incorporated into his morning jog.

  There were three of them – two men and a woman. Maker had first noticed them about a week earlier at the gym where he typically went to work out after his morning run. Dressed in matching T-shirts bearing the logo of some special ops unit, the trio had been loud and boisterous at the time. Maker had ignored them (mostly in hopes that they would show him the same courtesy), but it wasn’t long before the sidelong glances had begun, accompanied by fervent whispering. Once again, Maker’s reputation had preceded him.

  Even so, Maker had been hopeful that the three – like most others – would simply come to tolerate his presence, assiduously ignoring him to the furthest extent possible. No such luck. That first day, they had left the gym when he did, keeping a respectful distance but blatantly tailing him as he jogged back to his room at the Visiting Officer’s Quarters.

  Since then, they had trailed him every day – clearly focused on getting a handle on his routine: how far he ran, the route he used, how long it took, etcetera. In addition, over the past two days, they had stepped up their game, assuming strategic positions along the path he took.

  Of course, they hadn’t been overt about it. They had stayed out of view for the most part, a testament to the fact that they were well-trained and good at their jobs. Maker, however, was better, and had picked up on enough telltale signs for the trio to give themselves away: an errant cough, inadvertently stepping on a twig, and so on. It was enough to give him a heads-up regarding what was going on.

  But even if he hadn’t noted the conspicuous signs of their presence, he’d still have known something was amiss. His instincts were honed to the point that he could generally tell when there were eyes on him, when a threat or menace was in close proximity.

  In short, not only was Maker well aware of the fact that he was being surveilled, his gut also told him that his watchers would soon take action. And in this instance, his intuition was
spot-on.

  On this particular morning, he had just finished his workout at the gym and was jogging back to the VOQ when the trio made their move. They appeared on the path about a hundred feet ahead of him, stepping into view from behind a ten-foot hedge, at a place where the jogging trail turned at a moderately sharp angle. It was the spot at which Maker himself would have attempted to waylay someone, if such had been his desire. (He probably would have waited, however, until his target was closer, but the three ahead of him were either impatient or overconfident.)

  Having expected this maneuver, Maker didn’t break stride or do anything to indicate that he was aware of the trio’s intentions. In fact, he casually drifted over to the right – off the path – plainly giving way to the special ops soldiers in a last-ditch effort to avoid confrontation. (Quite often, simple deference was all that was needed to avoid conflict, and if it was an option here, Maker would take it. He didn’t have pride or ego with respect to these matters.)

  However, rather than take the olive branch being offered, the trio spread out, plainly intent on blocking Maker’s path. Smiling with malicious glee, the woman walked in the center of the jogging trail while her two companions – one a dark-haired fellow and the other bald – strode parallel courses on either side.

  Oh well, Maker thought. I tried…

  He slowed to a halt and then went down on his left knee, noting that the approaching trio were about thirty feet away. Massaging his right calf as if he’d gotten a sudden cramp, he took a moment to surreptitiously size up the threesome.

  In terms of appearance, the two men were about what one would expect from special ops members: tall and muscular, with an air of confidence about them that manifested itself in a sort of swagger as they walked. They were elite soldiers and they knew it; still, Maker was confident that he could handle them. The woman, however, was an entirely different story.

  She was only about five feet tall, but was built like a block of granite. Squat and square-shaped, her body appeared to be formed of nothing but corded muscle and sinew that stretched the tank top and shorts she wore to their limits. (Even her hair – tied into what appeared to be a French braid that fell down her back – looked fibrous and brawny.)

  Maker recognized the body type; it was indicative of a native of a high-G world. Coming from a planet with greater-than-normal gravity, the woman would be stronger and faster than the average person. (Not as strong or fast as an Augman, but she’d have an edge over most in terms of strength and speed.) That made her infinitely more dangerous than either of her male companions – especially on a standard-G world like Baskin, where Maker was currently stationed.

  The trio was about ten feet away when Maker went into action. Rising suddenly, he swiftly flicked his right shoe (which he had stealthily taken off while bending down) in the direction of the woman. The thrown was intentionally low – in the area of the woman’s shins – and she responded as he expected, instinctively leaping to avoid the projectile. In her case, however, her jump took her about twelve feet straight into the air.

  Her companions, momentarily distracted by the woman’s vaulting of the thrown footwear, watched her in awe for a second. Maker, on the other hand – although he noted the woman’s impressive vertical with his peripheral vision – was in motion almost before the shoe even left his hand. Flinging himself at the man who had been on the woman’s left (the dark-haired guy), he hit the fellow with a cut block, striking him dead-on at the knees.

  In terms of a fair fight, it wasn’t exactly according to Hoyle (but then again, neither was three-on-one). The man was just turning back in his direction when Maker made contact. With his feet planted, the impact immediately and powerfully forced the soldier’s knees back into a locked position – and then, under the strenuous pressure of Maker’s forward momentum, something in the man’s leg (or legs) snapped.

  Maker and his target went down in a tangle of limbs, with the man wailing in agony. Under ordinary circumstances, one might expect a foe to still be putting up a fight – punching, clawing, grabbing – even on the ground. Going with his momentum, however, Maker managed to roll free of his adversary without issue. As experience had taught him, there was nothing like a broken bone to take the fight out of an opponent. As evidence of this, the man he’d tackled didn’t even make a feeble attempt at combat after being taken to the ground, choosing instead to simply stay where he’d landed, moaning in pain.

  That said, Maker didn’t have time to pat himself on the back with respect to taking out one antagonist; there were two more to deal with, so he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.

  Coming up on the balls of his feet, he found himself with his back to the remaining oppugners. Rather than attempt to turn around, he immediately flung himself to the side – and none too soon, as something like a human missile went streaking through the space where he’d been a moment earlier. He knew without being told what it was: the woman, who had (upon coming back to the ground) promptly dove at him, perhaps preparing to visit the same treatment upon Maker that he had bestowed upon her companion.

  His maneuver had probably kept him from getting T-boned (or worse) by the woman. More importantly, it had bought him a little time, as the force of her jump was likely to propel his assailant much farther than was practical under the circumstances. Still, Maker didn’t kid himself. He had earned a few extra seconds, at best.

  At this juncture, Maker was still low to the ground, having rolled and come up on his fingertips and the balls of his feet after evading the woman. It wasn’t as bad as being on his hands and knees, but put him at a distinct disadvantage as he noted the third attacker – the bald man – bearing down on him fast. In fact, the fellow was almost on top of him.

  Maker rose swiftly and immediately threw a roundhouse kick at the man’s side with his right leg. When properly executed, it was a blow that could be devastatingly effective, doing everything from winding an opponent to breaking ribs. But in this instance, Maker had attempted the kick without having properly set his feet. Thus, his form was far from perfect. In addition, he had practically telegraphed the strike, giving his adversary advance notice of what was coming. Finally, he was up against what was most likely a well-trained combatant who would be experienced in dealing with an attack of this nature.

  As a result of all these factors, the kick – although it connected – did little damage. More to the point, the bald man ended up catching Maker’s leg, snaring it in the crook of his left elbow and using the same joint to pin it against the side of his body. Simultaneously, he brought his right hand over to help hold the leg in place.

  Ordinarily, this was just about the worst thing that could happen following a roundhouse kick, as the bald man now had a variety of options he could employ against Maker: sweeping the latter’s free leg, forcing him backward (or forward), and more. All of this flashed through the bald man’s mind in an instant, and he was on the verge of smiling when he got a look at Maker’s face. The grin that had been on the cusp of forming on his lips froze in place. Something in Maker’s eyes told the fellow the truth: that he hadn’t gained an advantage or the element of surprise by grabbing Maker’s leg. Instead, he’d done exactly what Maker had wanted him to do.

  Without warning, Maker used his free leg to propel himself toward his attacker. With his hands preoccupied holding Maker’s leg, the fellow had left huge swaths of his body open to attack, and Maker used the opportunity to ram his forehead straight into the man’s nose. Plainly stunned, his assailant wobbled for a moment and then collapsed, pulling Maker down on top of him. As they went to the ground, Maker followed up his head-butt with a hammerfist to the bridge of the man’s nose, connecting just as the fellow’s head hit terra firma. Sparing a quick glance toward his opponent as he scrambled away, Maker noted that the man seemed to be unconscious, his nose reminiscent of a squashed tomato.

  As with the dark-haired fellow earlier, Maker didn’t have time to gloat. Swiftly coming to his feet, he suddenly picke
d up on a sound that was both familiar and unmistakable: the distinct patter of footsteps striking the ground in quick succession. Someone was running towards him. Spinning in the direction of the sound, Maker found himself facing the last member of the trio.

  The woman closed on him fast, but seemed to check her speed as she drew near. Twice now she’d been spurred into taking action that could be construed as imprudent – namely, leaving her feet. Doing so had allowed Maker an opportunity to engage her companions individually and had cost them the advantage of numbers. She appeared wary of making any more missteps.

  On his part, Maker knew that he was seriously outclassed. This particular opponent was stronger and faster than him, and had far greater endurance. More to the point – judging from the look on her face – if she got her hands on him, she’d break him in half.

  Bearing that in mind, Maker worked on keeping a healthy distance between himself and the woman. Stated plainly, he retreated from her advance, constantly keeping his feet shuffling backwards. Needless to say, it didn’t take his opponent long to catch on to his game.

  “Come on, cutie,” she said in a surprisingly feminine voice. “Don’t play hard-to-get.”

  A moment later, she lunged at Maker, barely missing as he scooted hastily aside to evade her grasp. She was even quicker than he had suspected, with cat-like reflexes. The only advantage he had was that – given the woman’s height – her legs were short and she didn’t have a great deal of reach, despite the fact that her arms seemed slightly elongated.

  “Please, handsome, just one little kiss,” she mocked, puckering her lips teasingly. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Maker ignored her quips, refusing to engage with his adversary either physically (which would have been foolish) or verbally (which would also have been folly). Exchanging words with her would simply have winded him, and his opponent had a lot more stamina than he did.