The ring-laser gyros inside each York fed data to a separate maneuvering computer that kept it upright and balanced, the onboard sensors gathered data that was processed internally by the weapons-control computer and passed to the mainframe via UWB, and threats were identified and engaged in the order set by the controller before the battle began. In addition, the weapons-control computer passed information to the maneuvering computer so that it could move the unit to minimize the danger posed by low-priority threats, or threats the York had not yet had time to engage.
The computers and sensors operated seamlessly. Each unit engaged targets that threatened it and ran, leaped, swerved, and bounded to throw off the aim of opponents it had yet to engage.
The result was mass confusion. Officers shouted and pointed, gesturing wildly at the Yorks, which were leaping from truck to truck, running across the square, leaping up on the sides of the buildings and executing turns in midair while their miniguns hammered out aimed shots.
Soldiers who raised their rifles to aim at the sprinting Yorks were shot down, those who did nothing were not harmed.
One soldier threw down his rifle and stood erect in the center of the square with his hands in the air. One of the junior officers drew a pistol and pointed it at the erect soldier. He was immediately shot by two Yorks.
Other soldiers threw down their rifles, first a few, then many.
The firing slowed to an occasional shot, then stopped altogether.
The running Yorks slowed to a walk, then came to rest. Each one stood with its head turning, its sensors scanning, and the barrels of its minigun spinning, ready to fire. They were ominous, fearsome.
A cheer went up from the watching civilians, who ran into the square.
Burned and groggy from the concussion of the tank that had exploded nearby, General Moon Hok managed to get to his feet. He stood swaying, looking uncomprehendingly at his soldiers with their hands up. Then he took his first good look at the closest York, Alvin, whose sensors were scrutinizing him in return. The minigun followed his every move, but the shot didn’t come.
The helicopter carrying Hu Chiang settled into the center of the bank square and Hu stepped out. The cameraman, his camera still going, piled out the back and focused his camera on Hu, who looked around, then walked over to General Moon Hok and demanded that he surrender his command to the revolutionary forces of China.
The civilians were running into the square now, many of them armed with weapons liberated from the Kowloon police barracks. They were taking weapons from soldiers and passing them to unarmed civilians. A few of the newly armed revolutionaries aimed their weapons skyward and pulled the trigger, just to see if they would shoot.
The Yorks nearly shot these people. Cole suspected what was coming and warned Kerry Kent, who safetied the Yorks’ firing circuits just in time.
Moon Hok was in no mood to do or say anything to the people who had killed his soldiers and humiliated him, and Hu Chiang wisely decided that Moon’s silence was good enough. He ordered one of the armed revolutionaries who had appeared nearby to jail Moon and his officers.
All this made excellent television. It got even better: From his hip pocket Hu removed a written speech that he and Wu Kai Kwong had drafted for Wu to give at this moment. Since Wu wasn’t here, Hu read the speech to the unseen audience behind the camera as the cheering crowd gathered around him.
“We hereby proclaim the goals of the revolution: China shall become a free and democratic nation with a written constitution guaranteeing the rule of law, with leaders regularly elected by popular vote, a nation free of graft and corruption, a nation that protects its citizens from criminals, a nation where everyone shall have an equal opportunity to earn a living, a nation with free speech and freedom of religion, a nation that can take its place as a proud member of the world’s family of nations …”
The last half of the battle in the square was broadcast all over Hong Kong and mainland China. In Canton and Shanghai, in Beijing and Hunan Province and in villages all over the nation, people who happened to be near a television saw the Yorks standing in the center of the bank square surrounded by PLA troops with their hands in the air. Then the cheering crowd flowed into the square as if a dam had burst.
In Hong Kong City Hall someone called Governor Sun to the television. He was not in time to see the Yorks in action, but he watched as Hu Chiang landed in the square in the television station’s helicopter and walked over to General Moon. He saw Hu accept General Moon’s sidearm and he saw the first of the deliriously happy civilians stream into the square, hugging Hu Chiang and the surrendered soldiers and each other and gazing in awe at the York units.
“Radio Beijing,” Governor Sun ordered peremptorily. “A revolution is underway in Hong Kong and we need more troops immediately to stabilize the situation.”
The aide went off to do as he was told, leaving Governor Sun rooted to the spot, still staring at the television.
Nothing happened instantly in China, Sun well knew. It would take days for the government to reinforce the division of troops that were already here. Perhaps several weeks.
For the first time, Sun admitted to himself that he had misjudged the situation here.
His next epiphany followed immediately: The rebels would probably execute him if they could catch him. Chinese revolutions had never been bloodless affairs. This one wouldn’t be either.
Jimmy Lee’s producer stopped talking into the radio microphone when he realized that someone was standing beside him with a pistol, a pistol that was pointed at his head. He stopped talking in mid-word.
The pistol jerked, ordering him out of the chair.
A young woman of eighteen or nineteen years, an inch over four feet tall, took his place and began speaking into the microphone. “The Chinese revolution,” she announced simply, “has begun. The island of Hong Kong has been liberated from Communist control.”
Lin Pe watched the celebration in the Bank of the Orient square on the small television the Shatin grocer kept above his soft drink cooler. She watched as the cameraman inspected a York unit at close range — the thing towered a foot over everyone there and its head never stopped scanning — and the smoking hulk of a tank.
Hu Chiang appeared on television, behind him the crowd milled around, every now and then someone fired a shot into the air… the scene was festive, gay. No one even bothered to guard the unarmed PLA soldiers, who wandered through the crowd aimlessly, without direction.
Wu should have been here to see this, Lin Pe thought. He worked for a dozen years to make this happen, this first step!
The long journey had finally begun. She didn’t know whether she should be happy or sad. She went back outside and sat down on the orange crate where she could see the gate of the army base and thought about everything.
She would tell Wu of this. In this life or the next.
In City Hall the governor and his staff were mesmerized by the televised spectacle, by the aerial shots of the crowd surging into the plaza, and by the simple, infectious joy that was apparent on every face.
They huddled around the television, which alternated between shots from the square taken with a handheld camera and aerial shots from the helicopter, which had taken off again. Through it all Peter Po gave the voice-over, as calm and collected as though revolutions were a weekly occurrence.