Laura Whiting made a special address the next morning, demanding an independent investigation into the incident. It was a request that was all but ignored by both the big three media giants and the FLEB themselves. Two days later the FLEB office placed the blame for the shooting on the Martian rioters and the New Pittsburgh Police Department. No suspensions or disciplinary actions against any FLEB agents occurred, a fact that was leaked to MarsGroup reporters by Martian clerical staff who worked for the FLEB. Within hours of the ruling, the entire planet knew about it.
The following day the Martian people expressed their displeasure. The first incident occurred in New Pittsburgh, which was quickly becoming the focal point of much of the anti-fed movement. Two FLEB agents on a routine stakeout of a suspected "terrorist haven" were dragged from their van by an angry mob of Martian welfare class. They had their helmets and armor ripped from their bodies and they were beaten with their own firearms so severely that both were comatose when the police finally broke up the crowd. Though neither would die from their injuries, both would be medically retired because of the incident. No arrests were ever made.
A few hours later, in Libby on the equatorial plain, an entire ten-person team of agents about to conduct a strike were mobbed by a similar crowd as they waited for the elevators to arrive to take them up to their target. In this case two of the agents were killed, shot through the head by their own weapons, and six were beaten badly enough to require hospitalization. Again, no arrests were made by the responding police officers.
Throughout that day and the next, many other, less severe incidents took place in all of the Martian cities as FLEB agents went out to their assignments and angry Martians reacted to the slaughter in New Pittsburgh. These incidents would send several agents to local hospitals and result in the deaths of three Martians. But the biggest incident of retaliation took place three days after the New Pittsburgh Slaughter — as it was being called — in Eden.
"Incoming multiple agency response call," the dispatch computer said in it's calm, cool, collected voice. A second later, rows of text appeared on the screen.
"What is it?" asked Lisa, who was behind the wheel of the cart on this day. It had been another slow shift and she was ready for a little action to break up the monotony. A multiple agency response meant that something big was going down.
"34th Street and 7th Avenue," Brian told her, reading from the screen. "Heavy smoke in the streets. Multiple calls from citizens and the fire suppression systems have been activated at that intersection. Some of the call-ins seem to think a vehicle of some sort is burning."
"A vehicle huh?" Lisa said, turning the cart around and flipping on the emergency lights. "That could be nasty if it's a delivery truck carrying chemicals or something."
"Yep," Brian agreed, reaching under his seat and pulling out his gas mask.
In the enclosed environment of the Martian cities, fire was treated with considerably more respect than it was on Earth. On Mars, there was no outside to go to when things started to burn and the smoke had no natural way to escape from the area. Visibility would quickly be obliterated as smoke built up under the glass roof and people blocks away could easily be choked to death on noxious fumes if they were trapped in the vicinity. Though automatic fire suppression sprinklers were every twenty meters on the streets and every five meters in every building, they were good only for extinguishing minor blazes in the earliest stages of development. Major blazes, as this one seemed to be based on the dispatch information, required the use of high-pressure water hoses and lots of manpower. For this reason all public safety employees, the police included, were trained in firefighting and dispatched in large numbers whenever such an incident occurred.
"Holy shit," Brian said as they approached the area. "I guess something's burning all right." Though they were still six blocks away a haze of black smoke was quickly accumulating up along the ceiling. It grew into a thick fog further down the street. Hundreds of people, many of them coughing and with soot on their faces, were rushing out of the area, making it difficult for Lisa to navigate the cart through them. "Computer," he asked, "are any units on scene yet?"
"Negative," the computer replied. "I'm showing you as the closest so far. The next-in unit should be DPHS unit Delta-7. They are currently at 53rd Street and 7th Avenue."
"Copy, thanks," Brian said. He turned to Lisa. "We'd better get our masks and goggles on. This shit is gonna get thick in a minute."
"Right," she agreed, reaching down and picking up her own mask.
They covered their faces with the gas masks, which were capable of filtering out all but oxygen and nitrogen from the environment. They then pulled their combat goggles down over their eyes, setting them for infrared enhancement, which would allow them to see through the smoke. It was fortunate that they did this because within seconds the smoke became so thick that visibility would have been impossible. The streets however, were now mostly empty of citizens. Martians knew their fire drills well, having been taught since birth that it was imperative to get into a nearby building in the even of a blaze on the street. Buildings in the vicinity were automatically sealed off and imparted with air pressure greater than the street level to keep the smoke out.
A block away from the incident the actual flames became visible as a roaring red pyre in the infrared spectrum. Brian and Lisa could vaguely make out the source as a vehicle of some sort, possibly a panel truck. Their computer informed them that the heat was building up and that it was safe to go no further without protection. Lisa stopped the cart and they got out, going around to the back of it to remove their suppression suits, which were essentially coveralls made of bright yellow, synthetic, fire-proof material that did not conduct heat very well. As they put them on, Brian contacted the dispatch computer again. "Who's in command of this incident?" he asked.
"Battalion Chief 9 of DPHS," the computer told him. "She is still several kilometers away."
"Copy," Brian said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. "Battalion 9, this is EPD four-delta-five-nine."
"Go ahead, delta-five-nine," said the husky voice of the chief.
"We're on scene about a block out," he updated her. "It looks like a fully involved vehicle of some sort. Heavy smoke for four blocks in every direction and high heat in the vicinity. All of the citizens are off the streets as far as I can see. I recommend that when you get enough units close enough to fight it, we shut down the blast doors for a five block radius and start ventilating."
"Copy that, delta-five-nine," she said. "Will do."
"We're suiting up now," he told her next. "We'll move in and try to get some water on it."
They finished donning their suits, zipping them completely over their helmets and faces, leaving only enough room for their masks and goggles to peak out. "You ready?" Lisa asked Brian.
"I'm ready," he replied. "Let's do it."
They began to trot in the direction of the blaze, their combat goggles allowing them to see through the choking smoke, their suits protecting them from the heat. The blaze grew brighter and brighter as they approached and the shape of the object burning grew increasingly distinct.