“POPPA officials who carried out Vittori’s orders will be found and arrested,” she said in harsh voice, “but there will be no lynching in this city. We had enough lynching, murder, and torture under Vittori Santorini to last this world several lifetimes. Officials arrested for these crimes will be tried by jury in a court of law. We will tolerate no vigilante reprisals, no rioting, no looting. Anyone caught stealing or taking the law into his or her own hands will be shot on sight.”
Another exodus ensued on the heels of Maria’s grim announcement. This one spread rapidly to every major urban center of Jefferson and converged on Madison’s spaceport. POPPA’s upper echelon — including the other half the Assembly — found itself staring total disaster in the face. Most high party members decided it was time to take whatever money they’d managed to embezzle over the past two decades and run for the space station.
They got as far as the spaceport.
Ragged remnants of P-Squads blockaded the port, trying to protect wealthy refugees and screaming members of the Assembly from the howling mobs out of Port Town. Speaker Coridan appeared on camera again and again, pleading for calm. Even the rat-ganglords took to the streets, putting their people on street corners and getting the mobs quieted down, trying to stop the kind of violence spreading through other cities.
Somebody on Simon’s staff initiated what Kafari had not dared try, once Sonny entered Klameth Canyon: a comprehensive attempt to contact civilian survivors in Granger farmhouses. Melissa Hardy appeared from time to time with news of more survivors located, a short list that was slowly growing longer, as the night wore on. Some of the conversations were broadcast live, as Simon’s people assured terrified residents that they would not be attacked again. When Kafari’s wrist-comm beeped softly, she jumped nearly out of her skin.
“This is Red Dog,” she responded.
Simon’s voice asked, “Are you watching the P-News coverage?”
“Yes,” she whispered, wishing he were in front of her, so she could wrap her arms around him and be held in his strong embrace, again.
“Good. I’ve got some happy news to share with you.”
Kafari frowned as Melissa Hardy reappeared on camera.
“We’ve just made contact with more survivors from Klameth Canyon. Are you there, sir?”
A deep voice answered, a voice Kafari knew in an instant. “Yes, I can hear you, Miss Hardy.” Pain and elation leaped across the spark-gap of her heart, leaving her breaths rushed and unsteady. She groped for Yalena’s hand, gripped it hard enough to bruise, choked out a single word. “Daddy…”
Yalena gasped and tightened her fingers against Kafari’s.
Melissa was saying, “Can you tell us who you are, sir, and how many people have sheltered with you? We’re trying to compile a list of survivors.”
“My name is Zak Camar. My wife Iva is with me. We’ve taken in about a hundred refugees, besides family members. Two of my wife’s sisters and their children are here and we’ve made radio contact with other family members who made it to safety in time. If Commodore Oroton hadn’t broadcast the warning when he did, that the P-Squads were shelling us with poison gas, we would never have made it to safety in time.”
Melissa’s voice shook when she said, “Mr. Camar, you have no idea what an honor it is, speaking with you, tonight.”
A family photograph suddenly appeared on the datascreen. Her parents were clearly visible on the stage beside her as President Lendan presented Kafari with the Presidential Medallion. Melissa Hardy was saying, “Our news archivist just found this photograph. This is you and your wife, isn’t it, Mr. Camar? Witnessing the presentation of a Presidential Medallion to your daughter, Kafari?”
The caption beneath the photo read Zak and Iva Camar. Kafari Camar, who later married Colonel Simon Khrustinov, was rightfully dubbed the Heroine of Klameth Canyon for her role in saving President Lendan’s life. Kafari Khrustinova has been missing for the past four years.
Her father’s voice shook when he answered. “Yes. Kafari was our child…”
“Sir,” Melissa said in a soft tone that conveyed a wealth of unspoken emotion, “you must try to believe me when I tell you that tomorrow’s dawn will bring more joy to your heart than you can now imagine. It is an honor, sir, to’ve spoken with you, tonight. I’m sure that every other decent, hard-working citizen of Jefferson shares my gratitude that you and your family have survived.”
It was the closest Melissa could come to the truth, without completely blowing Kafari’s cover — or Simon’s. She ached to take her parents by the hand, to look into their eyes, to show them that she was still alive, and Yalena, with her. Tomorrow, she promised her aching heart. Tomorrow, the truth will finally step out into the sunlight.
Unless Sonny blew them all to hell before the dawn.
The Bolo still sat motionless where he’d stopped, just beyond the entrance to Dead-End Gorge, running lights glowing like an undersea creature swimming in an ocean of damned souls. He just sat there, while Dinny’s little boy curled up under his monstrous treads and fell asleep.
Kafari watched him, now and again, through the security cameras they’d trained on the Bolo, just to be sure the child’s ribcage still rose and fell — proof that he was still alive, down there, under the Bolo’s guns. Why he was alive, they didn’t yet know, although Simon called periodically to say that his people, too, were trying to get answers. “If Speaker Coridan knows what that crap was, he’s withstood a lot of pressure aimed at getting the truth out of him.”
Kafari drew her own conclusions and hoped bitterly that the speaker’s ashen demeanor during periodic news announcements was due at least in part to the aftereffects of Simon’s questioning style. Speaker Coridan had a lot of blood on his hands and he was going to have to answer for that, scramble he ever so quickly to save his sorry butt. He wasn’t the only one scrambling, either. Other Assembly members were falling all over themselves, as well, giving interviews to Melissa on the Joint Chamber floor, assuring voters that they were “dedicated to discovering the awful truth and punishing those guilty of atrocity.”
They were providing a hell of a floorshow. It would’ve been laughable, if not for the dead lying unburied, out here. The people rushing to condemn Vittori’s actions had drafted the legislation condemning Klameth Canyon’s refugees. Had applauded Vittori’s plans openly and gleefully. It was enough to nauseate the most hardened stomach.
And through all of it, Vittori Santorini was utterly silent.
Midnight came and went, without a single word from Jefferson’s embattled president. The Palace fires were under control and power had been restored to the south wing, but Vittori had answered none of the attempts to contact him, not even Speaker Coridan’s. The P-Squads standing guard over the Palace were the most savage and loyal of their breed. Whatever Vittori’s physical — or mental — state, Kafari doubted the P-Squads would’ve stayed where they were if Vittori had been dead or even incapacitated. The fact that they were still on guard, still bristling with weapons and determined to remain on duty, spoke volumes. Vittori was still very much alive, inside that Palace.
Alive and still in command of a Bolo Mark XX.
One that was not responding to orders at the moment, granted; but that could change. Fast. The fact that Sonny had stopped moving and responding at all meant his programming was dangerously unstable. Maybe not enough to trip the Resartus Protocol, but more than unstable enough to be unpredictable. Kafari was a psychotronic engineer. She knew, better than anyone on Jefferson — except Simon — just how dangerous that Bolo was, right now. Literally anything could set him off. Even a stray, wind-blown pinecone falling the long way down the mountain slopes into the canyon could set off a chain reaction with catastrophic consequences.