The man threw up his arms to ward it off. Lunging at him full-tilt, head lowered, I butted him in the stomach.
The wind went out of him in a gust. He tottered backward, his mouth opening and closing in agonized, fish-like contortions as he fought to catch his breath.
I stomped on his foot and gave him a violent reverse shove past me. Lurching wildly, he tumbled into the heavy-set guard—now arising—just as had Gaylord. Together, they went down atop the controller in a comic-opera slap-stick tangle.
Then a hand came clear of the threshing clutter of arms and legs. It held a paragun.
I kicked for—connected with—the wrist. The weapon flew wide. I dived after it, arm outstretched.
But before I could claw it up, a voice lashed out, harsh and heavy, from the doorway to Kruze's quarters:
"Don't touch it, Traynor!"
Kruze's voice.
The back of my neck prickled. Carefully, I drew my hand away from the paragun, then turned.
The controller of all FedGov Security's far-flung interplanetary operations stood staring down at me out of heavy-lidded eyes that in this moment sparked cold malice. One slab-like hand gripped a paragun, twin to the one I'd tried to snatch.