He stood there, arms outstretched, basking in the wild sound of adoration, drinking it down like fine wine. It was grotesque. Obscene. Like watching a man bring himself to orgasm in public. She wanted out of this crowd, out of the insanity flying loose in Lendan Park. Wanted Simon’s arms around her and Sonny’s guns overhead, keeping watch in the coming night. She knew, in that one, horrible moment, that John Andrews was doomed to lose the election. Knew it as surely as she knew the kind of programming code required to send a psychotronic brain like Sonny’s into alert status. Or over the edge into battle mode.
We’re in trouble, oh, Simon, we’re in trouble…
The crowd was shrieking, “V — V — V!”
V for Vittori. For victory. For victim… The prophet of the hour lifted his hands again, quieting the crowd to a hush so sudden, the sound of wind snapping through the “peace banners” cracked like gunfire. When the silence was absolute, he said, “We have work waiting for us, my friends. Wild work, critical work. We have to defeat the monsters ruling us with an iron hand and a stone heart. We have to throw off the yoke of slavery and call our skies, our children, our lives our own again. We have to rebuild the factories. The shops. The very future. We have to ensure the rights that everyone has, not just a privileged few. The rights to a job. To economic equality. To choose where we go or don’t go. Where we send our children or don’t send them. What we do — or don’t do — with our land. Our seas. Our air. We choose! We say! AND WE ACT!”
The thunder was back in his voice.
“We act now, my friends! Now, before it’s too late. We take charge. Before fools like John Andrews destroy us! It’s time to send a message. Loud and clear.”
The crowd was screaming again.
Vittori shouted into the microphone, shouted above that primal roar.
“Are you with us?”
“Yes!”
“Are you ready to take back our world?”
“Yes!”
“And are you ready,” his voice dropped again to a piercing whisper, “are you ready to give our enemies what they so richly deserve?”
“YES!”
“Then claim your power! Claim it now! Go out into the streets and smite those who oppose us! Do it now! Go! Go! Go!”
The crowd took up the chant, screaming it into the darkness. Vittori moved with sudden, blinding speed. He snatched up a microphone stand, held it overhead like a club, spun suddenly to face a huge picture of John Andrews that had appeared as though conjured from thin air, a picture painted on glass, translucent where spotlights sprang abruptly to life in the darkness. Vittori turned the microphone stand in his hands, swung it in a whistling, vicious arc, let go at the height of the backswing. The heavy metal base crashed through the glass, shattering it. Pieces and shards of John Andrews’ broken face rained down onto the stage. A roar erupted, shrieking like a hot, volcanic wind.
The crowd was moving, surging out toward its edges, amoeba-like. Tendrils of that massive amoeba engulfed the streets, the buildings beyond them. The sound of smashed glass punctuated the roar, staccato-quick, a rhythm of hatred and rage. The surging mass of people gathered speed, spreading out in all directions. Kafari found herself forced to run, to avoid being trampled by those rushing toward the edges of the park, into and past her. She held her abdomen, stricken with mortal terror for the baby as she ran with the crowd. They were, at least, running toward the garage where her car was parked.
They’d nearly reached it when the crowd smashed into something that was fighting back. Kafari couldn’t see what. Half the lights in the park were out, either pulled down or the glass smashed out, plunging great stretches of park into near-Stygian darkness. Storefronts and public buildings on every side stood with broken doors and widows gaping wide, interior lights splashing across the edges of the battle and the running figures of people smashing and looting their way through the rooms beyond.
Something arced high overhead, exploding with a cloud of choking chemical smoke. Riot gas! Kafari pulled off her jacket, covered her lower face with it as the smoke drifted down, engulfing the crowd within seconds. Eyes streaming, Kafari held her breath as long as she could, straining to reach the edge of the embattled crowd. She could see a line of police, now, truncheons rising and falling as they clubbed rioters to the ground. The savagery of it shocked Kafari, left her faltering, trying to backpedal against the crush of people pressing forward from deeper in the park.
The crowd shoved her right toward the line of police. They had their shields up, riot helmets down, while a second line pumped more gas rounds into the air. Others were firing at the crowd. Something whizzed past Kafari’s ear, striking the person behind her with a sickening, meaty thud that wrenched loose a scream. Terror scalded her, terror for her unborn child. She shoved sideways, trying to turn, found herself embroiled in a flying wedge of howling rioters, men who’d ripped up street signs, who’d broken thick branches out of the trees, swinging and jabbing them at the line of riot police. She was shoved forward, trapped in the center—
Police went down. A sudden hole gaped open. Right in front of her. Kafari stumbled forward, driven from behind, carried through the opening by the howling demons who’d battered their way through. She found herself running down the street. She headed toward the garage, less than half a block ahead. Others were streaming into the garage, ahead of her, evidently looking for a way out of the battle. Groundcar alarms screamed theft-attempt warnings. Kafari reached the doorway. Saw the automated attendant’s traffic bar snap and vanish as people shoved past the barrier.
Then she was inside, stumbling forward, trying to reach a staircase. She made it to the dubious safety of the nearest stairwell, badly winded and coughing violently. She could hardly climb, could barely see through the streaming tears. She fumbled her way up one flight, reached the floor her car was on. Stumbling badly, she managed to reach the proper row. She keyed her wrist-comm, flashing a message to the car to unlock itself and start the engine. Three seconds later, she fell through the open door into the driver’s seat. Kafari slammed the door shut, locked the car, sagged against the cushions and dragged down deep gulps of air.
Other people were running past, having reached her floor. She dug the gun out of the console, held it firm in a double-handed grip that shook with such violence, the muzzle described wide circles in front of her. Shudders gripped her whole body. When something smacked into the door, she twisted around. The gun came up. Her finger slid home. A wild-eyed man stared down the wrong end of the bore. His mouth dropped into an “o” of shock. Then he turned his larcenous attention to another car down the row from hers.
The muzzle of her gun rattled against the window glass in a jittery rhythm.
I will never, ever, she promised herself with devout intensity, get caught in the middle of another political riot… Her wrist-comm beeped at her. Simon’s voice, harsh with strain, sliced into her awareness.
“Kafari? Are you there, Kafari?”
She managed to push the right button on her third, shaking try. “Y-yeah, I’m h-here.”
“Oh, thank God…” A whisper, reverent in its relief. “Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling.”