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growling.
Meikl turned on him. "Now it's come to this, has it?" he snapped. "From
the beginning, they were willing even eager, to give what we wanted.
Why did they stop being willing?"
"That's enough, Meikl!"
"I've hardly started. You came here like a tyrant, and they served you
like a friend. You couldn't bear it. 'Brethren', they said. But there's
nothing about 'brethren' in the tactical handbooks, is there, Baron?"
"Shut up."
Ven Klaeden said it quietly, as if bored. He crossed slowly to stand
before the analyst and stare at him icily.
"You speak of the unconscious inheritance of culture, analyst the
kulturverlaengerung. And you have accused me for being a carrier of the
war plague, eh?"
Meikl paused. The baron's eyes were narrowed, stabbing as if in judgment
or triumph.
"Well, Meikl? Is that what we've done? Inflicted them with conflict?
Brought back the old seeds of hate?"
The analyst drew himself up slightly. "You just killed a man, a man of
dignity," he snarled, "and you cut two others down like weeds."
"Innocent old men." The baron's mouth twisted into a snarl.
"They wanted nothing but to help us."
"Yes, Meikl? And we are the barbarians, eh?"
The analyst spoke disdain with his eyes.
The baron straightened in sudden hauteur. "Look down at the ground,
Analyst," he hissed.
Ven Klaeden's sudden change of tone impelled him to obey. His eyes fell
to the turf at his feet moss covered sod, rich and dark beneath the
green.
The baron kicked a hole in the moss with the toe of his boot. "Tell me
where the infection came from, Analyst," he growled. He scraped at the
hole with his heel. "And why is the dirt so red right here?"
Meikl glanced up slowly. Two men were coming through the shrubs, walking
warily along the path toward the clearing. Ven Klaeden seemed unaware.
He leaned forward to speak through his teeth.
"I give them nothing but what they gave our fathers their own inner
hell, Meikl the curse they so carefully forgot. In their Eden."
The man was mad... perhaps. Meikl's eyes followed the men who
approached through the shrubs. One of them carried a burden the limp
body of a girl, occasionally visible through the low foliage as they
drew nearer. One of the men was a junior officer, the other a native.
After a moment, he recognized the native....
"Evon!"
As he called out, the baron whirled, hand slipping to the hilt of the
ceremonial sword he wore in the presence of the Geoark. The men stopped.
Meikl stared at the limp figure in the arms of the native.
"Letha!"
"Dead," Evon hissed. "They killed her for running...."
They emerged from the shrubs into full view. The officer was holding a
gun.
"Put that away!" ven Klaeden snapped.
The young officer laughed sourly. "Sorry, baron, I'm from the
committee."
"Guard!"
"There's no one in earshot, Baron."
"Fool!" Ven Klaeden arrogantly whipped out the sword. "Drop that gun, or
I'll blade-whip you!"
"Easy, baron, easy. I'm your executioner...."
The baron straightened haughtily and began a slow advance, a towering
figure of icy dignity in the sun that filtered through the foliage.
"... but I want to take care of this one first." The renegade waved the
gun toward Meikl. "You, Baron, you can have it slower a needle in your
official rump."
Ven Klaeden, a figure of utter contempt, continued the slow advance with
the sword. The officer's lips tightened. He squeezed the trigger. Ven
Klaeden hesitated, jerking slightly, then continued, his hand pressing
against his abdomen, doubling forward slightly. The officer fired