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Twenty

Mustapha Pong was awake although his eyes were closed. He heard the swish of the hatch sliding open followed by the click of boots on the metal deck. He recognized the step as belonging to Raz. "Yes?"

"The Harrington party has come aboard, sir."

Pong opened his eyes and blinked in the light of the overhead spot. It felt good to be back aboard his ship safely ensconced in the privacy of his own cabin. He hated the prospect of making small talk with the Harringtons but it had to be done. They'd hired his army, and as representatives of the combine had a right to see what they'd paid for.

Pong nodded. "Thank you, Raz. Show them into the wardroom. I'll make my entrance after they've had some time to stew."

Long accustomed to Pong's ways, Raz nodded and withdrew.

Pong closed his eyes. He directed a thought toward the mind slug. "Show it to me again."

The alien gave the Melcetian equivalent of a sigh. Pong never seemed to tire of the fantasy and demanded to see it at least once or twice a day. The mind slug secreted some chemicals, waited for them to take effect, and projected the appropriate thoughts.

Color swirled in front of Pong's eyes, paused, and gradually took shape. A vision emerged, an omnipotent vision such as God might have, in which entire solar systems and galaxies were little more than pieces laid out on a table of black marble.

Here and there Pong saw bursts of light as stars were born, black holes as others collapsed, and collisions so monumental that entire planets were turned into clouds of cosmic debris.

But these were trivial events, no more important than a spring rainstorm on Desus II. Of more importance was the vast sweep of sentient activity. He could see it drifting across the blackness like star dust, succeeding here, failing there, all according to chance and the work of a few unusual minds. Minds like his.

Well, not exactly like his, because Pong could see the possibility of order within the chaos. He could conceive of something greater than the stars themselves. A single civilization, with him at its center, reaching across known space and beyond, to wrap all races and cultures in a single embrace, an organism so big, so powerful, that it would live for a million years.

Yes, that was a vision worth working toward, worth sacrificing to. Humans, Il Ronnians, and, yes, the 56,827, all of them would kneel to Pong.

The chemicals ebbed from Pong's system and his eyes snapped open. The vision had the effect of reenergizing him. Now he was ready to deal with trivial annoyances like the combine and its somewhat arrogant leadership.

Pong got down off of his thronelike chair and headed for the hatch. It swished open at his approach. Raz and Molly waited outside.

Ever since the assassination attempt Pong had insisted that Molly be with him at all times. Pong had always liked and respected the little girl, but this was something more than that, an almost superstitious belief that she brought him good luck.

After all, since Molly's abduction from Alice Pong had yet to suffer a single defeat, and she had literally saved his life. Surely it would be wrong to ignore such an obvious talisman.

Pong smiled at Molly, and she smiled back, but it was polite and somewhat distant. Oh, how he hungered for a real smile! The kind he saw on those rare occasions when she was swept away by the joy of the moment. Like the precious hours they'd spent walking the streets of Segundo, the aircar hovering above them like a guardian angel, Raz practically dancing in his eagerness to get Pong off the planet.

Those had been magic moments during which Molly had forgotten herself, and her parents. Yes, her parents were the problem, and one with which he would eventually deal. Perhaps Molly's mother had been killed in the attack on Alice. If not, a hired assassin could finish the job.

As for the almost-legendary Sam McCade, well that might be a little more difficult, but where there's a will there's a way. The trick would be to kill Molly's parents in such a way that their deaths could never be traced to him. And then, with that accomplished, arrange for Molly to find out. She'd be sad for a while, but children are resilient creatures and recover quickly. With all hope of being reunified with her parents gone, Molly would gravitate to him, and Pong would see those smiles a good deal more often.

Yes, just two more of the many small details that must eventually be dealt with. Pong took Molly's hand and together they walked down the corridor toward the ship's wardroom.

Pong cut it extremely close. By the time he entered the wardroom Marsha Harrington, the most senior of the Harringtons present, was just short of a boil. No one kept her waiting on Drang, and by God no one should keep her waiting here either, especially some jumped-up mercenary general. Her escort, a rather junior officer named Naguro, had done his best to stall but had run out of small talk five minutes before.

So as Pong entered the room, Marsha Harrington turned her somewhat beefy body his way and was just starting to speak when he preempted her.

"Citizen Harrington, this is an enormous honor. I knew the president and chief executive officer of Harrington Industries was brilliant . . . but I had no idea that she was beautiful as well."

Being far from beautiful, Marsha Harrington flushed at this unexpected compliment and found herself completely disarmed. Pong was entirely different from what she'd been led to expect. Quite pleasant in fact, and, aside from the grotesque alien draped across his shoulder, dangerously handsome. She found herself babbling like a schoolgirl.

"The honor is mine, General Pong. May I introduce my brother Howard, and my cousin Nadine?"

Howard, a rather sallow man in his mid-thirties, gave a stiff bow, and Nadine, a dissipated-looking creature in a custom-tailored Harrington Industries business suit, nodded. She looked at Pong like a rancher judging a prize bull. "Charmed."

Pong smiled. "Likewise I'm sure. Hello, Lieutenant Naguro, it's good to have you with us."

Naguro, a nervous little man, nodded jerkily and did his best to fade into the background. Pong, and the rainbow-colored thing on his shoulder, made Naguro sweat.

"Now," Pong continued, "if you'll take a seat around the table, we'll review the additional forces now at your disposal. With the landing only two rotations away I'm sure you'll agree that time is of the essence."

The next two hours were so boring that Molly had a difficult time staying awake. Aided by a long series of holos, Pong droned on and on about ships, troops, equipment, logistics, and drop zones. And if he wasn't talking, then it seemed as if Marsha Harrington was.

Making the situation even worse was the fact that the wardroom was extremely spartan. Outside of the occasional holos there was nothing to look at.

The only interesting moment came about halfway through the presentation, when Boots, Lia, and two of the girls entered the room with trays of refreshments. Boots had been out of the brig for some time now . . . and made no secret of her hatred for Molly.

Molly could understand that, but still hoped to make friends with Lia and fix things with the others.

Molly smiled, hoped for some sort of friendly response, and was quickly disappointed. The girls ignored her, while Lia put on a show of exaggerated deference, and hated Molly with her eyes.

So Molly just sat there, staring miserably at the floor, wishing she were dead. Didn't they realize how she felt? Couldn't they see that she was a slave too? Subject to Pong's slightest whim?

No, Molly realized, they couldn't. The fact that they served while she did nothing had blinded them to the way things really were. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the girls left the room.

"And so," Pong said, plucking a grape and popping it into his mouth, "that completes our review. The government's forces are strong, but so are yours, and with the addition of my troops the advantage is ours."

Marsha Harrington nodded agreeably. Pong's presentation had compared favorably with the reports of her own intelligence apparatus. Not only that, but the mercenary had kept self-serving exaggeration to a minimum. She liked that. There was only one question left.

"An excellent presentation. Thank you, General. One more question before we leave. Can you tell us anything about my father? With hostilities only hours away, and his home almost completely unprotected, we can't help but worry."

Pong did his best to look appropriately concerned. He searched his memory and came up empty. Damn. There were so many things to track. The mind slug filled the gap. Pong seized the information and put it to use.

"Of course. I'm pleased to report that a special operations team under the command of Captain Roland Blake has landed on Drang and is en route to your father's home. They should reach the mansion within the next few hours."

Marsha Harrington beamed, while her brother nodded dutifully, and her cousin examined perfect nails. "Thank you, General Pong. I can tell we are in good hands. To a successful campaign." She raised her wine glass.

Pong smiled and raised his wine glass in return. "Yes. To a successful campaign."

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