He felt the pulse of the crowd change, the confusion shifting.
“We have taken theirs—” He pointed toward the large screen in the plaza that displayed footage of the raid on Ama’s world. “—and made it THEIRS!” He pointed at the Haffset estate.
There was a rising murmur, and a few shouts. His eyes roamed across the nameless faces, the workers and commoners of Cathind. Pressed against a barricade, a woman with dark-ringed eyes and a gaunt face stared back at him. In her expression, he saw the weariness of a life of unceasing work and empty promises of rewards. He remembered the same tired eyes from his childhood—affectionate, but worn. He saw, now, a flame ignite behind the woman’s eyes.
“I came from this city. I walked these streets. My father worked in the recycler. My mother programmed the machines that make our World work. Tonight I return to where I began and where I belong: among my People!”
The crowd exploded at his words and surged against the barriers. The solid fiber creaked, but the walls were well-reinforced against the pressure. Seg looked down the line of barriers and noted the support braces. They were strong against force from the outside, but not from the inside.
“I come to join you!” He raised a fist in the air and dropped the voice-amp on the ground with an echoing thud.
Beside him, Nallin stood speechless before she dove to retrieve her equipment. Seg could hear her calling for him but he ignored the shouts and returned to Manatu.
“Get us an opening in the barrier!” he shouted.
With an unhappy look to the surging mob, Manatu pulled his pistol from its holster, then paused, reholstered the weapon, and marched to one of the Haffset House guards. Before the guard could react, Manatu mumbled, “Pardon me, Citizen,” grabbed the guard at his neck and mid-section, and lifted him. Manatu charged, heaving the body sideways, using the guard as both shield and battering ram to push down a section of barricade. It fell inward and, like a burst dam, released rivers of people who flowed out around him.
Manatu dropped the guard, swept his hand out to Seg and grasped him by the collar. In turn, Seg grabbed Ama’s hand. Her arm was linked to Lissil’s and the chain of four clung together against the flood of bodies.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Ama shouted.
Seg did his best to shelter the pair in the shadow of Manatu’s bulk—a rock against the tide pouring into the plaza. Confused and outnumbered, the remaining House Guards retreated into the safety of the estate, sealing the door behind them. Nallin Sastor was abandoned to the mob.
How were they going to get out of here? He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“RAIDERS!” Manatu’s voice carried through the din with surprising clarity. “TO THE THEORIST!”
At Manatu’s call, heads turned, raiders scattered through the crowd moved against the flow to where Seg and his small entourage made slow progress. In a short time, the group was circled by thirty men and women. With weapons drawn, the raiders moved into position, creating an island—Seg, Ama, and Lissil at the center.
There was a loud smash from somewhere in the distance, followed by shouts from onlookers. The crowd was turning violent.
“We need transport,” Manatu said.
“I have a private trans. Where do you need to go?”
Seg followed the voice to its owner—Arel, the raider with the prosthetic arms. He grabbed the young man by the shoulder. “We need to get to the RQ, to the slideway to Old Town. Now!”
Arel lifted his head to address the circle of raiders. “I’ve got the Theorist. Who’s with us?”
“Sergeant Katstin of the Naffick Lurkiyas. We brought two utility trans. We’ll watch your tail,” a tall, square-jawed woman said.
A man in the crowd tried to lunge through the line, toward Seg, and was tossed aside.
“Let’s move,” Arel said.
Behind them, more crashes, more cheers, and now the smell of smoke. The crowd was tearing apart the barricades and using the pieces as weapons. The air was tightening, threatening to explode with some long-contained fury.
The raiders marched steadily forward against the swell of bodies. Behind them, screams signaled a new wave of demonstrations—the House Guards and responding wardens were using their own weapons. Even so, more Citizens poured in. The chaos was infectious.
Seg glanced back at the tumult. He had intended to excite the crowd, create a distraction for his escape, that was all. What he had seen on those faces, however, suggested something far more serious was unfolding here. “I never knew,” he whispered, as a raider grabbed his arm and pulled him farther away from the estate grounds.
Lines of trans were neatly parked near the perimeter of the plaza, though the crowd was now weaving among them. A group of Citizens tipped over a luxury trans, clambered on top, and stomped on the machine. Bottles passed from Person to Person, and the haze of amba smoke mingled with the scent of other fires.
“Over here!” Arel said, now at a jog. He stopped at a sleek, well-polished trans and pressed his metal-composite fingers to a pad on the door. The pad glowed blue, announcing that the machine was now unlocked.
As Arel ushered Seg and his crew inside, he shouted directions to his fellow raiders, who hurried off to two larger, utilitarian machines. The raiders piled into the backs of the utily trans, sat on the long bench seats on each side, and warned away rioters with chacks and rifles.
Arel’s trans was a sport model, with only enough room for a single operator in front. All passengers were relegated to the back. Lissil was first in, followed by Manatu, then Seg and Ama. The vehicle was luxurious under less-crowded circumstances, but was clearly designed more for appearance and performance than carrying capacity.
“Thank you,” Seg said to Arel, who sat in the operator’s console. He wedged the stolen chack between his knees and the seat in front him and shifted to pull his elbow out of Ama’s ribcage.
“Don’t thank me until we’re out of here.” Arel glanced out the windshield.
The mob swarmed through the trans park, leapt onto the machines, and used whatever makeshift weapons they could find to destroy them.
“Hang on,” Arel said, and the trans zoomed in reverse.
There was a thud, then the trans hummed forward, swerving around bodies and machines to escape.
Arel raised a metal finger, pressed a button on the console. “I’ll see about getting some help at the—” He pushed the button with more force.
“The comms are down,” Seg explained.
“Comms are what?” Arel shook his head and narrowly missed a pair of rioters. “Never mind. Something tells me I don’t want to know what’s happening here. The transway will take us right through the compound and into the RQ.”
Seg lifted his arm over Manatu’s head and squirmed to look out the rear windshield. The two utility trans, packed with raiders, followed close on their tail. The transway was exposed but that would work in their favor if anyone was shadowing him.
Arel took a sharp turn, crushing the passengers even more. Ama was silent but obviously amazed as she watched Arel’s metal arms and hands operate the controls.
Free of the crowd now, he pushed up the speed. “You’re from the Temple,” he said with a glance to Ama. “Your Outer friends did some good work there. Saved my life.”
Ama only nodded, then strained to face Seg. “I thought the men were safe? I thought you made an agreement to protect them?”
“The CWA used the threat against the Kenda to force me to give you up. They got what they wanted, now they’re going for more,” Seg said.
“And Fismar doesn’t know,” Ama said. Inches apart, she and Seg shared a look of concern.
“Arel, how many of these raiders will follow me across the slideway?” Seg asked.
“This bunch? They’ll all follow you, Theorist. Or haven�
��t you been paying attention?”
“Good. I think we’re going to need all of them.”
The building looked like any other run-down old stone construct in the Raider’s Quarter. A small metallic plate in front identified it as a communal lodging for the Sand Strikers Charter. Its placid external appearance belied the furious activity within. The officer on duty supervised as men and women pulled weapons off the racks, donned armor, and moved toward waiting trans. He handed a digipad to a Sergeant. “Two probable locations. Either he heads for the compound or he heads for the slideway. We want him and everybody with him, but the Theorist is the priority. You’ve got the slideway.”
The Sergeant nodded and trotted away, waving for his troops to follow. The digipad clutched in his hand bore the image of Theorist Segkel Eraranat. The trans hummed to life as the raiders moved out. Around them, other units mobilized; flash contracts had passed through to various units to suppress the growing riots. Worse yet, at least some off-duty raiders were participating in the riots.
Cathind was falling into chaos.
Unable to hold still, Seg twisted sideways, jostling everyone again.
Manatu let out a small grunt as he spoke to Arel. “Never ridden in a Rip382. Must have cost all your raid profits?”
“I had two more just like this one before I signed up. In my past life I was a financiary, one of the better ones.”
“But you signed up?” Manatu asked.
“To serve the People.” Arel’s voice was flat but underlain with hostility. “Long story,” he said, before Manatu could ask further.
The orange lights of the transway zipped by. Arel drove as fast as possible without attracting unwanted attention, the sport engine whirring at a higher pitch than a regular trans engine would.
“Almost there, Theorist,” he called out to Seg.
“Good. Do you have any more weapons?”
“Pistol in the drink compartment, micro chack under the seat—that’s it, but they’re yours.”
Seg reached under the seat, prompting another round of grunts from Manatu. His fingertips brushed the telltale bulge of a holster and he strained further forward against the crush to liberate the micro chack.
He held the micro chack out to Ama. “You know how to use one of these?”
She snatched the weapon, checked the cassette and charge, then made sure the abler was flipped to safe. “Elarn taught me.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Seg glanced past Manatu to Lissil. Even beneath the copious face paint, he could see she was doing her best to put on a brave front. They would have to see about shedding some of her costume. Dressed as she was, Lissil would be a glaring target, and a liability.
He turned back to Ama. Her face was set; she had been uncommonly quiet during the ride. “That man, Ortis, was he CWA?” she asked.
“From what I saw of him, his uniform, yes,” Seg said.
“But the warehouse is in Guild territory, so how can the CWA—” Ama’s question was interrupted by a loud, metallic clatter.
Lissil screamed. Seg turned to see wide streaks of red blooming through the forest of her dress where her leg rested against the door. Lissil’s dark skin paled, her eyes rolled back, and her head lolled to one side.
“Manatu!” Seg said.
Air flowed into the trans through slits in the door, where heavy spines had punctured.
“Got her!” Manatu wrapped his arm around the unconscious Lissil, chack raised in his free hand.
Arel swerved, the trans broke traction and skidded sideways—first in one direction, then the other. With a piercing squeal, it smashed into a large trans coordination grid, sending the vehicle into a spin before it halted against the side of a dropshop. The low-rent, raider casino was festooned with colorful lights and decorations that shattered on impact, showering the roof of the trans with glass. Sparks fired from the exposed electrical circuits outside, before the wiring shorted out in loud sizzles.
“Everyone alive?” Arel asked. He turned and faced the group, smeared a streak of blood on his forehead with a wrist.
Seg peeled himself off Ama and quickly checked her for wounds. “I’m good. Manatu, how’s Lissil?”
“Still breathing.”
Seg glanced back at the raider trans, their allies who had followed them from the Haffset estate. The first had veered and tipped over, spilling raiders across the road. The second screamed to a stop, just short of the damaged vehicles, and its human cargo piled out with weapons raised.
Farther back, a stream of troopers funneled out from the interior of a personnel carrier trans in precise formations. These raiders wore full uniforms and armor—in stark contrast to those who had followed Seg—and they were well-armed. They sported no unit emblems, no identifying marks, which told Seg they had been contracted by someone who had planned far enough ahead to consider deniability. Fi Costk. These were CWA contracted troops, and they were coming for him.
“Seg, we have to get out of here.” Ama stared out the small, shattered window at the lines of approaching attackers.
“You have to get Lissil to a medfac,” Seg told Manatu. “In the Guild Compound, if you can get back there.”
“But—”
“That’s an order!” Seg said.
Arel had his door open and his weapon raised. “Theorist, get your crew moving!”
Seg reached past Ama to push the door open. They piled out and circled to the other side of the trans for cover. Behind them, the off-duty raiders were forming up; in front, the CWA agents had taken their positions. In the middle, between the two groups, the slideway station sat like bait in a trap.
Manatu hauled Lissil out of the trans, unsheathed a knife and cut away the billowy layers of her dress. Three gashes across her right thigh spewed blood. Two toxic spines protruded from the flesh.
Manatu wrapped his hands in the torn fabric and tugged out the two spines. Lissil came to life momentarily, with a pained groan, then faded out again. Blood oozed from the tiny spots like a snakebite in her thigh.
“Here.” Ama grabbed more of the fabric and knelt over Lissil. “Lift her leg.” Manatu pulled up on the leg and Ama wrapped the cloth around the wounds, cinching it snugly.
“Those CWA Troops are only blocking the path to the slideway,” Manatu said to Seg. “If Arel’s people cover me, I can get her out of the fire zone, at least. Maybe flag down a rental trans or something.”
“We’ve got you.” Arel shouted orders to their raider allies.
Manatu scooped Lissil into his arms, lifting her in a half crouch. He looked to Seg. “Theorist …”
“Go,” Seg said.
The raiders laid down cover fire as Manatu carried Lissil in the opposite direction from Seg’s destination. CWA agents returned fire. Spines snapped through the air and Seg pulled Ama down against the cold metal of the trans, their chests heaving.
At the clatter and hiss of huchack spines, the crowds on the walkways vanished. The RQ’s inhabitants were primarily off-duty raiders, and those not involved with the fight weren’t going to get caught in the middle of it.
The barrage slowed, then stopped, as Manatu rounded a corner to safety.
Through the shattered trans window, Seg assessed the path he and Ama would have to take. Their escape would not be so easy. The slideway station was close but CWA troops flanked the path.
“We’ll cover you, Theorist.” Arel tossed him a pistol and glanced toward the slideway station and the line of CWA agents. “For what it’s worth.”
Seg shook his head. Armed forces in Cathind, ambushes, and open combat? This was not the World he knew.
He readied his chack and motioned for Ama do the same. “Stay close.”
They slid away from the wounded trans as the raiders behind them laid down a volley of cover fire. Seg
darted a look to the CWA agents, in time to see the muzzle of a heavy needler shift.
“Down!”
He and Ama hit the ground as a cassette of needles flashed over their heads with a sound like tearing canvas. Behind them, the stone facade of the dropshop shattered—masonry, chunks of stone, and pieces of glass flew through the air, crashing down around them. His raider allies surged forward to cut off the CWA attack; scattered, desperate exchanges of fire followed, echoing through the street.
“Go,” Seg said, and they scrambled to their feet. They ran toward a parked trans for cover.
For the moment, Seg’s people had greater numbers, but they were ill-equipped. There were a few heavier chacks, but these raiders had been off-duty, attending a party; most were armed only with pistols and micro chacks and wearing no appreciable armor. The battle had ground to a bloody stalemate and the fighting spread out behind them as stray shots ignited fresh exchanges of fire throughout the Raider’s Quarter.
He skidded behind the trans and turned to give Ama instructions. She was gone.
Chack raised, he ducked out from behind his cover. She was alive, but running back to Arel’s trans.
“Ama! Get back here!”
Spines sliced through the air around her sprinting form; Seg unleashed a hail of fire from his own weapon. Just as she arrived at the wounded trans, Ama dove to the ground to avoid another round of heavy needler fire. She rolled out of the tumble, raised her micro chack and fired back.
There was a scream. Seg watched one of the CWA agents fall to his knees, clutching his neck where Ama’s shot had found home.
Moments later, she raced back to Seg, swerving to avoid debris, finally falling in beside him.
“What—”
She thrust out her hand. The collar’s controller was in her palm and, breathing so hard she couldn’t speak, she pressed it into Seg’s hand. In the chaos, he had forgotten about the controller and its proximity monitor.
He searched her face, coated with dirt, sweat, and flecks of Lissil’s blood. “The controller’s yours,” he said.
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