exit like a gale-force wind. Jumping to the lee side of a table, he looked over in time to see Henrikson leave the building at the head of his mob. Joining the flow, Durbin moved toward the exit, realizing he'd been concentrating so hard on the collie stooge that he'd missed the final punch of Henrikson's speech. That was a shame; he'd wanted to hear it.
Outside, the mob made a sharp right turn. Ahead, two blocks away, loomed the Hub's south gate. Running along the crowd's edge, Durbin worked his way up to the middle of the group, where he'd be able to function as secondary leader if necessary.
"Halt!" a voice boomed from in front of them—one of the gate guards with an amp. "You are ordered to disperse."
In answer, Henrikson half turned, roared something Durbin didn't catch, and doubled his speed. A flash of light lanced out from each of the outside guards, slashing across the front rank. The weapons were apparently set low—to burn instead of kill—and for a second the crowd faltered as screams of pain mixed with the rage. But Henrikson didn't even slow down. His clear voice called and the mob surged forward once again. Ahead, Durbin could see both guards resetting their lasers even as they began to retreat. The gate was opening behind them as they raised their weapons for a second shot—a killing one, probably, which even Henrikson's hidden flexarmor shirt might not be able to stop.
The shot never came. Simultaneously, both guards' heads snapped back, and the two men collapsed into heaps on the ground. The inside man gaped at them for a heartbeat, all the time he had before he too was dropped by O'Hara's hidden blackcollar marksmen. And the gate was still open.
With a shout of triumph Henrikson led the way through the barrier. Some of the teenagers stopped to strip the downed guards of weapons; and when a carload of Security men whipped around a corner seconds later it was caught completely off-guard, riddled with laser burns before its occupants could react. That gained them eight more weapons, and soon the air was filled with laser fire as the rioters vented their rage on the surrounding buildings. Again Henrikson shouted and gestured, and the mob once more began to move forward, striking out for the Hub's business and governmental center.
Because he was watching for a Security attack on their rear, Durbin saw the three vehicles—an autocab, a private car, and a van—that slipped out the abandoned gate behind them. Phase one completed, he thought, ticking off an imaginary checklist. Now came phase two, the mission that gave them the title of Bait: to draw down upon their own heads the worst the collies could offer. Shivering slightly, one eye still on their rear, he hurried to keep up with the mob.
The report reached Galway while still en route to the Security building. "How many got in, Sergeant?" he asked tersely.
"A couple hundred at least, sir," Grazian, who had taken over the main desk duties, said. His voice quavered despite obvious efforts to control it. "I don't know how. All three guards just collapsed suddenly while the gate was open, but the power and metal detectors didn't show anything that could be a weapon."
"Slingshots," Galway muttered.
"Sir?"
"Blackcollar sniper's weapon," the prefect amplified. "Put out an M-Seven; I want everyone in riot gear immediately."
"Yes, sir," Grazian said. Simultaneously, a large red M-7 appeared on Galway's car display screen. "Done, Prefect."
Galway pressed the reset and the M-7 vanished. "All right, now what about the other men we lost?"
"They were the four backups you'd ordered to that gate. They'd just called in that they heard the rioters when they were hit. I guess they thought the mob was still outside the wall."
"Why?" Galway pounced. "You were monitoring it, weren't you? Why didn't you warn them?"
"Sir—I—" Grazian sounded miserable. "It all happened so fast...."
"So you froze, and four men are dead." Galway's words were harsh, but his anger
Outside, the mob made a sharp right turn. Ahead, two blocks away, loomed the Hub's south gate. Running along the crowd's edge, Durbin worked his way up to the middle of the group, where he'd be able to function as secondary leader if necessary.
"Halt!" a voice boomed from in front of them—one of the gate guards with an amp. "You are ordered to disperse."
In answer, Henrikson half turned, roared something Durbin didn't catch, and doubled his speed. A flash of light lanced out from each of the outside guards, slashing across the front rank. The weapons were apparently set low—to burn instead of kill—and for a second the crowd faltered as screams of pain mixed with the rage. But Henrikson didn't even slow down. His clear voice called and the mob surged forward once again. Ahead, Durbin could see both guards resetting their lasers even as they began to retreat. The gate was opening behind them as they raised their weapons for a second shot—a killing one, probably, which even Henrikson's hidden flexarmor shirt might not be able to stop.
The shot never came. Simultaneously, both guards' heads snapped back, and the two men collapsed into heaps on the ground. The inside man gaped at them for a heartbeat, all the time he had before he too was dropped by O'Hara's hidden blackcollar marksmen. And the gate was still open.
With a shout of triumph Henrikson led the way through the barrier. Some of the teenagers stopped to strip the downed guards of weapons; and when a carload of Security men whipped around a corner seconds later it was caught completely off-guard, riddled with laser burns before its occupants could react. That gained them eight more weapons, and soon the air was filled with laser fire as the rioters vented their rage on the surrounding buildings. Again Henrikson shouted and gestured, and the mob once more began to move forward, striking out for the Hub's business and governmental center.
Because he was watching for a Security attack on their rear, Durbin saw the three vehicles—an autocab, a private car, and a van—that slipped out the abandoned gate behind them. Phase one completed, he thought, ticking off an imaginary checklist. Now came phase two, the mission that gave them the title of Bait: to draw down upon their own heads the worst the collies could offer. Shivering slightly, one eye still on their rear, he hurried to keep up with the mob.
The report reached Galway while still en route to the Security building. "How many got in, Sergeant?" he asked tersely.
"A couple hundred at least, sir," Grazian, who had taken over the main desk duties, said. His voice quavered despite obvious efforts to control it. "I don't know how. All three guards just collapsed suddenly while the gate was open, but the power and metal detectors didn't show anything that could be a weapon."
"Slingshots," Galway muttered.
"Sir?"
"Blackcollar sniper's weapon," the prefect amplified. "Put out an M-Seven; I want everyone in riot gear immediately."
"Yes, sir," Grazian said. Simultaneously, a large red M-7 appeared on Galway's car display screen. "Done, Prefect."
Galway pressed the reset and the M-7 vanished. "All right, now what about the other men we lost?"
"They were the four backups you'd ordered to that gate. They'd just called in that they heard the rioters when they were hit. I guess they thought the mob was still outside the wall."
"Why?" Galway pounced. "You were monitoring it, weren't you? Why didn't you warn them?"
"Sir—I—" Grazian sounded miserable. "It all happened so fast...."
"So you froze, and four men are dead." Galway's words were harsh, but his anger
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