from behind them.
"... now," Sleel finished.
"Red?"
"I must be a couple of seconds slow—" he began. Then the lights in the hall blinked off. "Ah, there we go."
The emergency lights flicked on, allowing enough visibility to see, but not well. Just what the matadors wanted.
"Let's hit the door," Dirisha said.
They ran.
* * *
There were two hundred people milling around in the lobby— those who had sense enough to use the stairs when the power failed. Panic hovered over the crowd; fear was thick in the air, though most of the people could not know what it was they were afraid of.
The six matadors charged into the crowd suddenly and gave the frightened mob a focus. There was no need to clear a path—lanes appeared as if by design. Nobody wanted to stand in front of the mysterious gray figures.
The glass wall at the building's front allowed sunlight inside. The guards were easy to see. The air filled with the sounds of spetsdöds, no louder than handclaps among the yells of the mob.
The hovering panic descended like a net cast over a school of fish. People began screaming and shoving.
Guards dropped. There were six—no, eight—down. Two or three dodged into the crowd. Bork got one. Geneva shot another. Then the six matadors were at the door, hustling through.
Blam ! An explosion behind them, swallowed by screams. A hole the size of Dirisha's fist appeared in the thick glass door, half a meter from her head.
Dirisha spun, searching for the source of the explosive rocket. She couldn't see the shooter—
Wait! A flare and second blast, there—! Not a uniformed guard, it was a business-type!
Mayli and Geneva and Red were outside; only Bork and Sleel were still behind Dirisha. As she swung her right spetsdöd around and shot the civilian, Sleel leaped into the air, twisting in a half circle.
"Sleel!"
Where Sleel's left arm had joined his shoulder there was now only bloody flesh and raw bone: his arm had been blown off by the rocket.
"Bork!"
"I got him, I got him!" Bork bent and scooped Sleel from the floor as might a man lifting a small child. He held Sleel's wound pressed against his own massive chest, to check the bleeding. Sleel's face was dead-white. Shock.
Dirisha opened up on the crowd, both spetsdöds on full auto. People fell like puppets with severed strings.
Bork ran past and outside, clutching Sleel.
Methodically, Dirisha reloaded her weapons. She opened up again, fanning twenty people into unconsciousness.
"Dirisha!" Red was pulling on her arm. "Come on!"
"Sleel's arm—"
"We haven't got time to look for it! Come on!"
Dirisha stared at the remains of the cowering crowd. She wished in that moment that she had loaded something other than shock-tox darts. She wished her darts were poison. Fatal poison.
"We've got to get Sleel to the medicator!"
That got through. Dirisha turned away from the lobby. Bork was already at the hopper with the others and Sleel. Dirisha ran. Don't you die, Sleel.
Don't you fucking die !
PART TWO
Become the general and the enemy becomes your troops.
—MIYAMOTO MUSASHI
The injury that we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance.
—MACHIAVELLI
Twelve
MASSEY STOOD STILL, outwardly impassive, but Wall could feel the man's nervousness. Just as well; he should be nervous. Everybody connected to Confederation power should feel skittish. Everybody with half a functional brain! Damn Khadaji and his home-grown rebels! That broadcast had gone out to tens of thousands of local stations all over the human and mue inhabited galaxy. Billions would have seen it live, more billions would have seen recordings of it. It was more than just a call to arms to the handful of bodyguards Khadaji had trained, it was an incitement to general war. Any half-baked dissident anywhere would take that short-but-deadly message to heart: Khadaji lives! There are more like him ready to lead you!
Most people wouldn't know, of course, just how much of a thorn Khadaji had
"... now," Sleel finished.
"Red?"
"I must be a couple of seconds slow—" he began. Then the lights in the hall blinked off. "Ah, there we go."
The emergency lights flicked on, allowing enough visibility to see, but not well. Just what the matadors wanted.
"Let's hit the door," Dirisha said.
They ran.
* * *
There were two hundred people milling around in the lobby— those who had sense enough to use the stairs when the power failed. Panic hovered over the crowd; fear was thick in the air, though most of the people could not know what it was they were afraid of.
The six matadors charged into the crowd suddenly and gave the frightened mob a focus. There was no need to clear a path—lanes appeared as if by design. Nobody wanted to stand in front of the mysterious gray figures.
The glass wall at the building's front allowed sunlight inside. The guards were easy to see. The air filled with the sounds of spetsdöds, no louder than handclaps among the yells of the mob.
The hovering panic descended like a net cast over a school of fish. People began screaming and shoving.
Guards dropped. There were six—no, eight—down. Two or three dodged into the crowd. Bork got one. Geneva shot another. Then the six matadors were at the door, hustling through.
Blam ! An explosion behind them, swallowed by screams. A hole the size of Dirisha's fist appeared in the thick glass door, half a meter from her head.
Dirisha spun, searching for the source of the explosive rocket. She couldn't see the shooter—
Wait! A flare and second blast, there—! Not a uniformed guard, it was a business-type!
Mayli and Geneva and Red were outside; only Bork and Sleel were still behind Dirisha. As she swung her right spetsdöd around and shot the civilian, Sleel leaped into the air, twisting in a half circle.
"Sleel!"
Where Sleel's left arm had joined his shoulder there was now only bloody flesh and raw bone: his arm had been blown off by the rocket.
"Bork!"
"I got him, I got him!" Bork bent and scooped Sleel from the floor as might a man lifting a small child. He held Sleel's wound pressed against his own massive chest, to check the bleeding. Sleel's face was dead-white. Shock.
Dirisha opened up on the crowd, both spetsdöds on full auto. People fell like puppets with severed strings.
Bork ran past and outside, clutching Sleel.
Methodically, Dirisha reloaded her weapons. She opened up again, fanning twenty people into unconsciousness.
"Dirisha!" Red was pulling on her arm. "Come on!"
"Sleel's arm—"
"We haven't got time to look for it! Come on!"
Dirisha stared at the remains of the cowering crowd. She wished in that moment that she had loaded something other than shock-tox darts. She wished her darts were poison. Fatal poison.
"We've got to get Sleel to the medicator!"
That got through. Dirisha turned away from the lobby. Bork was already at the hopper with the others and Sleel. Dirisha ran. Don't you die, Sleel.
Don't you fucking die !
PART TWO
Become the general and the enemy becomes your troops.
—MIYAMOTO MUSASHI
The injury that we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance.
—MACHIAVELLI
Twelve
MASSEY STOOD STILL, outwardly impassive, but Wall could feel the man's nervousness. Just as well; he should be nervous. Everybody connected to Confederation power should feel skittish. Everybody with half a functional brain! Damn Khadaji and his home-grown rebels! That broadcast had gone out to tens of thousands of local stations all over the human and mue inhabited galaxy. Billions would have seen it live, more billions would have seen recordings of it. It was more than just a call to arms to the handful of bodyguards Khadaji had trained, it was an incitement to general war. Any half-baked dissident anywhere would take that short-but-deadly message to heart: Khadaji lives! There are more like him ready to lead you!
Most people wouldn't know, of course, just how much of a thorn Khadaji had
Similar Books
