The sound of the clock's first bell was followed by the echo of footsteps coming from the lip of the alley. Then there was a voice, clear and strong, singing a melody that pre-dated the vocalist by decades. All eyes and ears turned toward the source of the lyrics, which trumpeted someone's arrival from the darkness.

Sinclair recognized the verses. It was an old war tune from the 1940's. The American soldier had died in his arms singing it:

"Praise The Lord, and pass the ammunition!
"Praise The Lord, and pass the ammunition!
"Praise The Lord, and pass the ammunition,
"And we'll all stay free!"

The man came to a halt and stood just at the edge of their periphery as the second bell sounded. He was dressed all in shadows, with silver brocade flourishes woven across the shoulders and upper sleeves of his silk shirt. His thick black hair was long and fluttered in the evening breeze. He didn't mind; it made him feel like a rock star, and he sparkled like one too. He had on a double-holster with a six-shooter strapped to each hip. His boots were silver-tipped and gleamed even in the darkness of the alleyway. The only thing that competed with them for luster was the man's smile.

Sinclair, the Omega Squadron Guards, and even Ven and fscked couldn't take their eyes off of him. Amidst the squalor of the alleyway, he was stunning. The third bell struck.

"Well, are y'all just gonna stare or are we making a party out of this?" he asked.

"Shoot him!" commanded Sinclair, and the target switched to the man in black & silver. A barrage was fired from the guards' particle-fission rifles, most of them into the darkness. The man wasn't visible enough to present a clear target, but with that much ammunition flying he was bound to be struck down instantly. fscked grabbed Ven and pulled him to the ground. They both covered their heads and stayed down as the exchange erupted.

It had been loud enough to almost drown out the sound of the fourth bell. A multitude of chrysolite hues swathed the alley, flickering in time to the hammering rhythm as the gunslinger returned fire. (He clutched his pair of Colt single action .45's, finished in silver with black pearl stocks. The length of the barrels, hammers and even the bodies were ornamented with Art Nouveu-like patterns. The craftsmanship was obviously like nothing produced in the last hundred years.) By the sound of the fifth bell all was again quiet. Ven and fscked peeked up to see that the man in black & silver had stopped every single shot cold before it could reach him. His aim was preternatural and a thing of beauty to witness.

The guards held their rifles and prepared to toss off another volley when they were beat to the punch. The gunslinger squeezed his triggers and unleashed a magnificent flurry of pinpoint-perfect shots that disarmed all of the occupants within less than three seconds. The following three seconds were filled with another fifteen blasts that put all of the guards out of commission, like the ones he encountered before stepping into the alleyway. He took care to make each Acid bullet stronger than anything he'd ever fire at a human being, but not strong enough to kill one of them. It may have been corny, but it was his way if he could help it. Sometimes though, even he didn't have a choice. And he had his limits too.

As the last shot was fired, Sinclair leaped above the fray and somersaulted into the man's chest, sending him to the ground. The impact dislodged both of his guns which flew into the air. The Prefect caught one at the sixth stroke of Midnight, and reached down to grab the insolent human. He'd had more than enough of this obstinate species for one night, and was finally about to put an end to the madness.

The human flailed and tried to pry the vise of fingers off, but Sinclair held the gunslinger fast by the throat and brought the revolver to his temple. He cocked the hammer and prepared to fire. His grip did not betray his weakened state and would have already crushed a normal human's windpipe. But his resources had been compromised, he knew that. If he didn't finish this quickly the humans stood a real chance of overpowering him - and it was all the female's fault.

He turned his attention to fscked and decided she would be the first to fall. She and Ven had risen from the ground but were only partially straightened up, and they halted at the sight of the gun barrel aimed at them. He couldn't miss and at this range even she couldn't outrace a bullet. Thick, gelatinous blood oozed down the grip of the .45 as Sinclair mustered the strength to pull the trigger. With his other hand he continued to increase the pressure on the gunslinger. He wanted the man in black & silver to watch his comrades die.

The clock tolled the seventh bell...

The hammer fell. There was an empty click. Nothing happened. The bell rang for the eighth time...

Instinctively figuring he'd hit an empty chamber, Sinclair fired again and got the same result. Click. Click. How could the gun be empty? he thought. He had just watched the human fire repeatedly and by all appearances it was fully loa-

He understood, just as he turned his head back to the gunslinger who seemed to relax in the Prefect's grip. The man released one of his gloved hands from the occupant's grasp and leveled it at his captor. It had all happened so quickly Sinclair only now absorbed that the man hadn't once reloaded his six-shooters while firing. He didn't have to, and the reason was simple: he didn't actually need the revolvers. And he supplied his own ammunition. Even now, the man leveled his arm at Sinclair and retracted his three lower digits. His thumb was cocked and his forefinger almost docked with the occupant's nose.

Sinclair couldn't be sure, but just before he was overtaken by a flash of emerald light he thought he saw the man's eyes gleam from within. The lyrics from that song replayed in both of their minds as the gunslinger squinted ever so slightly and locked the occupant in his site. The man dropped the hammer of his thumb as the bells tolled for the ninth time.

As if summoned from his toes and then piped jagged and hot through his blood, the man screamed as he released the most potent Acid-bullet he'd ever delivered into the world. At point-blank range and bereft of his pistols...

...BULLETBOY...

...fired the first volley in the infinite canon of the revolution. It would become known as the Shot Heard 'Round the Galaxy.

The impact ripped straight through to the Prefect's brain, sending his consciousness spiraling off into the ether and his body into the trash. He instantly released both the captive and the gun as he was shunted violently through the air, over Ven's and fscked's heads and into the dumpster behind them. Large patches of his hair were scorched off and his entire face was blackened. If Sinclair was dead, there would be no regret from his killer; sometimes there wasn't a choice. And there were limits.

BulletBoy kneeled on the ground, finger still smoking, and caught the falling six-shooter with his other hand without even looking. The thunder of his discharge still reverberated in the streets, and he was physically shaken. He coughed a few times and rubbed his throat. The other pistol was a few feet away and he crawled over to reclaim his totem as the bells gonged for the tenth time.

"Are you okay?" asked Ven. The backwash of energy had knocked he and fscked back to the ground, but they all arose together and took a breath. The coast was momentarily clear.

"I was just about to ask you guys the same thing," rasped BulletBoy. He looked over at the body lying in the dumpster and frowned. "Crazy mother-fucker," he said, firing a shot that caused the lid to slam shut. "Nobody messes with BulletBoy's people. Or his guns."

The eleventh toll of the bells fell. He felt something on his bare fingers and looked down to see one of his pistols still covered in Perdendosi blood, which he would soon find was notoriously hard to clean. He flung his fingers out, trying to shake it off. He hated to put the pistol back in its holster but he certainly didn't want this mess on his hands. "Yuck. Come on; let's get you guys out of here."

They followed him back out the alleyway in the direction he'd entered just as the clock struck for the twelfth time. They stepped into the streetlights of Perseverance Way to find tripsy waiting patiently in her Chevelle, smoking a cigarette and looking at her watch.

"That was over a minute," she called to her friend. "I counted."

"Yeah, yeah, cut me some slack. I didn't add in travel time," he responded. "Look who I found." He gestured toward Ven and fscked who nodded appreciatively.

"So is this what you guys do for fun on a Friday night?" asked tripsy. "I'll have to hang out with you more often!"

BulletBoy called, "Shotgun." Then he opened the passenger door and let the others into the backseat. He'd barely closed it behind him before tripsy burned rubber evacuating them all. Sixty seconds later, they'd be a mile away.

Between the duo in the backseat was nestled the infocomm. "So you guys made it to the Hall, I guess," said Ven.

fscked leaned forward to ask, "Hey, can you spare a cigarette?"

tripsy said, "Yeah, they're in the glove compartment."

BulletBoy obliged and reached in to root them out, not looking forward to the smell. He'd have to hook them both up with those filament-laced deals of his. "Yup, we must've got there right after you took off. You weren't real hard to track down."

"Too bad about your car," said tripsy.

"Don't remind me," said fscked as she lit up.

"Hope you've got a good insurance provider. Where to, gang?" asked the driver.

"My place," said the gunslinger. "They can spend the night while we sort this all out. Besides, we can't do anything with that 'til tomorrow morning anyway," he said, motioning toward the infocomm. "And I think right now, everyone needs to lie as low as can be."

He was right, of course. BulletBoy was always on target.

They had been there a full five minutes before a tracker was unloaded from their carrier and a bio sweep was initiated. It immediately lit up with Sinclair's signals, both from the tatters of his uniform and embedded in his bone marrow. He was directly in front of them, yet they didn't have a clue as to his whereabouts. Farewayth was agitated, but tried not to show it. She was not about to have a friend and dignitary of the Prefect's standing disappear. He had just been in the vicinity and couldn't have gotten that far away, even if the humans were clever enough to sever another digit.

And then a lowly thought occurred to Farewayth. It had eluded her and the rest of the guards because the concept was so appalling, so undignified, it naturally went beneath their notice. She turned hesitantly to the far end of the alley and the dumpster sitting against the brick wall. As she walked over to it, the rest of the Omega Guard fell silent and followed her lead.

She lifted the lid of the dumpster to find their Prefect discarded in the trash.

A flurry of activity erupted. Sinclair was hoisted from the refuse and laid on the ground while guards attended to him. Many of them had never seen a Perdendosi in such a physical state, mangled and broken. Even during the worst of the Terran uprisings, the occupants never felt the threat of harm from the natives. Their own casualties were extremely light; that was what the foot-soldiers had been created for. Were it not for the guards' training, they might not have known how to react at all.

There was no trace of life to be found in the burnt husk that was Sinclair. No pulse, no respiration, no blood pressure, no neural activity. There were scant traces of an unquantifiable energy found lingering in his system, as well as the comatose guards, but that wasn't indicative of even the faintest chance of revival. There was evidence he had recently undergone a massive coronary and survived, a testament to his willpower. But their attempts at resuscitation were fruitless. Sinclair was dead.

"He's not dead," said Farewayth.

The Omega Guards looked at her with confusion. A lone female guard managed to work up the nerve to question, "Ma'am?"

"He's not dead. Not yet." Farewayth knelt down and picked up the Prefect's body. The guards were incredulous. As unlike a Perdendosi was to go into shock, they were certain that's what they were witnessing. She wasn't though; if anything, her rationale had taken over. She was speaking in the future-tense.

"Overguard, there's nothing else we can do for Prefect Sinclair," said the attending medical soldier. "His vitals are completely - "

"There is something else we can do for him," said Farewayth. "We've got to get him back to the Battery, now! Contact the techs on Level One and tell them to prepare a pod." She carried Sinclair from the grunge and muck of the alley to the closest carrier. A subordinate opened the rear doors for her, while the med-soldier followed.

"Ma'am, do you mean Sub-Level One?" she asked. "Testing hasn't been approved for live subjects yet. I don't think you're going to get approval for thi-"

"I meant Level One," said Farewayth in a tone that demanded obedience. "And I don't care if they have to dump a specimen in a Chancellor's lap to make the space. Tell them to prepare a pod and get a power relay up and ready to fire. On my personal authority. Is that understood?"

The guard checked herself and understood her superior was having the last say. It was in her best interest to accept the decision. "Yes ma'am," she said.

"In the meantime, follow up on whatever took place here. Interrogate every single human who might have witnessed anything. I don't care what it takes; we're going to punish whoever did this beyond measure. I'll be contacting you within the hour." At her beckoning, other guards accompanied Farewayth in the back of the carrier, which pulled off and raced back to the Way Station compound.

The rest of the Omegas stayed behind to survey the scene and tend to the comatose troops. The officer who had summoned the temerity to question the Overguard considered what their commander's intentions were. The thought was rather ghoulish and, as unpleasant a sight as the Prefect's body had been, she shuddered to think of the outcome of Farewayth's plan. She couldn't see any good coming of it, but it was thankfully out of her hands.

"Squadron Omega Supreme field unit to Security HQ Command Station. Come in Command Station," hailed the officer. She pressed a recession on her head gear and an image fizzed into view on the interior of her visor.

"Command Station acknowledging, Omega Supreme. Over," responded the guard in charge.

"Put this transmission through to the technicians on Level One of the Battery building. I have an urgent directive from Overguard Farewayth, who is on her way there right now with Prefect Sinclair."

There was an uneasy silence, then the guard dutifully said, "Routing transmission, Omega Supreme. Hold for confirmation."

Yes, the officer certainly didn't want this mess on her hands. Perdendosi blood was notoriously hard to clean.