Free Tinker's Justice by J.S. Morin Page A

them.
    “Come on, come on; get through. Make way for the others; you’re all safe, but get those arses of yours hustling. No time. I’ll explain later. Are you all right? Get going then. If that was a thanks, then you’re welcome, now move .”
    In all, it took less than a minute. The three armed humans in the room were dead, nine hostages safe and cut free from their bonds, and a world-hole closed behind them.
    “Who are you people?” one of the councilors demanded. She was grey of hair and sideburn, with a scowl that looked congenital. If it weren’t for the frazzled hair and a busted spectacle lens, she might have even been intimidating.
    “We work for Draksgollow. I’m General Bradet.” He saluted, mindful of his orders from Draksgollow. They were supposed to make a good impression and leave it there. Much as he would have liked to backhand the ungrateful mule of a councilor whose first words free of a gag were anything but a thanks—it hadn’t been her who had mumbled gratitude through a burlap cloth.
    “I’ve never heard of any Draksgollow,” one of the other councilors said, a man in his middle years with a mangled face that might never grow a proper beard again. “Who does he work for? And … what the quakes is this place? Where are we?”
    Bradet held up his hands and gave a gentle smile. “You’re among friends. Go freshen up, grab a bite, and relax. We’ll figure out someplace safe we can deliver you, and you’ll be home by dinnertime. And don’t worry about Mr. Draksgollow; you’ll get to meet him before you go. It’ll be something you can write about in your memoirs, brag to your drinking mates about. And he’ll answer any questions.”
    “All well and good, but who is this Draksgollow fellow?”
    “He’s Korr’s solution to the human problem.”

    General Knorlen clasped his hands behind his back, staring into the viewframe. Five minutes ago, he had ordered his troops to raid a church in the lowest layer of Kupak Deep. The city had been hard hit by the rebels, who had dug in and taken control of the lifts and stairshafts, cutting off all travel from layer to layer except those they permitted. Kupak was under siege from within. There hadn’t been a thunderail through in a week, and the two that tried were looted and derailed. Draksgollow had ordered a stop to it.
    But the scene before him was anything but encouraging. The ragtag assemblage of human fighters was well-armed. Early intelligence sweeps through Kupak had given no indication that these rebels were coil-gun armed, but clear as the bullet-thick glass protecting Lieutenant Fedrin at the controls, there they were, firing back from around corners with guns that punched holes in stone. It didn’t help matters that the church was human-made brickwork, barely fit to stand under its own weight. The balls from the coil guns tore through the masonry like it was made of crackers—and not the rock-hard sort served in the cheap cars on the thunderail.
    “I don’t like this,” Knorlen muttered.
    “Yessir,” Lieutenant Fedrin agreed dutifully.
    Knorlen fingered the coil-gun holstered at his hip, itching to order the machine on so he could offer support fire. Draksgollow would pitch a fit, risking himself like that, but Knorlen was rapidly approaching the point where he would either have to intervene or make the call to abort the whole operation.
    “This should have been a two-machine raid. We could have hit them from multiple angles, right off.” He knew Lieutenant Fedrin was listening, but he didn’t care. Fedrin was no fool, and must have been thinking the same thing. Most of the operators were clods, simple dial-turners who happened to be quick with their hands. Fedrin was an officer, a bit quiet and bookish, but he had a head for strategy. He kept the viewframe on the most critical areas, shifting angle and location to match the flow of the battle.
    “Sir!” Fedrin shouted. “Reinforcements!”
    “Those rat bastards,”