Frowning, Bukal looked down at the speaker. "What nonsense—?" he began.
But a man shoved forward and cut in upon him: "No nonsense, Bukal!" he flashed fiercely. "All morning, the amplifiers have been blaring across the barrier. Zenaor says he'll leave us free, safe from the ourobos, in trade for this wench and her alien lover!"
More echoing silence. More vibrant tension.
Then Bukal snapped, "Enough of this drivel! Zenaor's daughter or not, this girl's cast her lot with us. As for Craig Nesom—"
From one side, a rawboned, ape-like discman smashed a blow to the back of Bukal's head. The leader spilled to the ground.
Like wolves, the crowd surged forward.
Craig drove a fist into the face of the man who'd struck Bukal; lashed a kick to the groin of another, beside him.
Then green fire blazed, a blast that seared between him and the Baemae.
The crowd stopped short; fell back.
Fire-gun in hand, bronzed body glistening, Bukal lurched to his feet. Blood dripped from his earlobe. "You scum, would you buy your lives with treason?"