She was faster. Elbow moving, hand flashing upward. She batted the blade cleanly out of his hand, reversed the movement, and pounded her open gloved palm hard across his mouth.

"So, you try to rape me, then kill me. An interesting use of your authority, Sergeant. But not, I think, something your superiors would approve of. Why would they believe me, you ask? All I need do is give you a hard shove, and you'll stumble back into sight of that squad circle with your trousers dropped halfway down your legs and your lip bleeding. I'll follow, calling out for help. Then... well, then we'll see. Maybe you'll emerge the hero after all."

All the while she was twisting her left fist where she'd seized the front of his tunic. The fabric wound tighter and tighter, and his face reddened more. It would have been easier just to have loosed the prongs from her glove and have done this annoyance. But easier only in the simplest sense, in the shortest term.

Very quickly the sergeant saw reason, and Radstac went on her way. She had spilled nothing from the tray.

She turned past a row of stationary wagons, their beds loaded with standard ordnance and guarded by a disinterested unit of Felk. Nevertheless, a few of the male soldiers eyed her as she went by. With her chopped short hair the color of spoiling berries, the white scalp scar across the back of her skull and the two other scars marking her bronzed face, she didn't represent the unimaginative man's ideal of womanhood. Not that she cared a bugger. Sex was a sport in which one seized one's prizes, and playing that sport violently and decadently was perfectly within the rules. In her life she'd had her share of playing.

As she walked, Radstac let out a low tuneless whistle.