"Wait! Wait!" The medbot telescoped frantically to its fullest height. "You should not be using that arm!" The patient looked at it, and the medbot said, "May I help?"
The patient said in an odd voice, "Please break the window for me."
This was another very interesting thing. The medbot had never before broken a window for purposes of exiting through it. Apparently the procedure involved striking glassite until its structural integrity failed. The medbot closed its primary grasping appendage and tapped the window once, observed the pattern of cracks radiating away from the point where it had tapped, and then rapped, sharply, once.
The window fell away.
The medbot said, "Is the window satisfactorily broken?"
The patient said softly, "Thank you." She turned back to the floating cab, called out, "Who are you?"
From the cab, a male voice called back, "Ralf!"
"Ralf! Bring the cab closer to the window!"
The cab drifted gently closer, stopped a meter distant, and now a fierce wind blew in through the window. "That is as close as I can come," Ralf said. "I'm being pushed back by my own fanwash now. If I drop fans I'll lose altitude."
"I only have full use of one arm, Ralf. I can't make it across a meter. Can you go to the Temple, tell them I'm here?"
"Peaceforcers boosted from L.A. fourteen and a half minutes ago, Callia Sierran. You have no time to do anything but come with me now."
Hot fanwash gusted in at her. "You know me."
"Yes. You are the mother and daughter of Angel de Luz, the sister of Lan Sierran, and the friend of Denice Daimara. And if you're not in this cab within two minutes I'm pulling away from here."
He knows about Angel. Callia shivered. "Who are you?"
There was a distinct pause. "I am Ralf the Wise and Powerful. I'm an Artificial Intelligence, and a friend of Denice's. I was once the Image of Trent the Uncatchable. And I am the last hope you have to keep your life. If you want to live, come with me now."
Callia Sierran swallowed. "Oh, Harry." She took a deep breath, turned to the medbot. "'Bot?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"Help me into the cab."
The medbot considered the task. It had been taught to aid the elderly and infirm in and out of bathtubs, to climb stairs, to turn unconscious patients in their beds, to catch patients who were falling. This would require a similar set of motions; it could do it. "I can do that," it announced. The medbot examined the geometry of the situation--how very interesting. Between 109 and 113 centimeters separated the cab from the window ledge; the cab moved back and forth a bit. The medbot dropped back to the floor, and pushed the gurney slightly back from the window. It telescoped itself to its greatest height, reached up with all three of its grasping appendages and grasped the edges of the windowsill. The top of the windowsill was too high for its primary grasping appendage to reach; the medbot flipped random numbers and switched over to the left edge of the windowsill, and held onto that edge with one of its secondary and its primary grasping appendage.
It lifted itself up very slowly. It was capable of lifting considerably greater weights than itself; but not from this position. The edge of its front three feet were almost parallel with the bottom ledge; it extended its legs, saw its front feet touch the ledge, and crept forward, centimeter by centimeter, until all six of its feet were firmly grasping the bottom ledge.
The patient said softly, "Good 'bot."
The medbot turned its attention to the cab; it wavered back and forth in a periodic pattern, and the medbot timed it; when the cab was 111 centimeters distant, and swinging forward, the medbot released its grasping appendages' hold of the window ledge and pushed itself forward.
It fell, crashed into the cab. The cab dipped, dropped lower still, and the medbot's feet lost most of their contact with the window ledge; the medbot scrambled frantically for a hold on the cab, along the line where the canopy would normally have sealed. First its right grasping appendage caught, and then its left; the medbot waited several seconds to make sure that it was secure, and then reached back with its primary grasping appendage. "Mademoiselle? Take my hand, and I will aid you into the cab."
Callia had watched the procedure with something very like awe. The medbot's words shook her partway out of it; she pulled forward, got the gurney back within a few centimeters of the window, and reached forward with her right hand for the medbot's large central hand. Slender steel fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist, tightened, and then pulled her forward. She got her left hand onto the windowsill, pulled up--
The medbot's pull on her ceased instantly. "Do not use that hand!"
Callia Sierran could not think of anything else to do.
She let go.
The medbot pulled her further forward, out into the fierce wind. The cab dipped as her weight came forward, and to compensate Ralf turned the fans up another notch; the wind blasted around Callia and she had to close her eyes from it, and then she was slipping and Callia opened her eyes again, panicking, screaming, and found herself sliding face forward into the waiting cab, the medbot letting go of her as she fell into the vehicle. She got her good hand on the dash, pulled herself upright into the front left passenger's seat, trembling, fumbled shakily with the seat belt and got it fastened. She turned to the medbot, still gripping the cab and the windowsill--
The cab pulled abruptly away from the Latham Building, dropping downward, medbot hanging from the side of the vehicle, fans coming up--
The medbot's grasp on the side of the cab was slipping. Callia saw it happening. She didn't stop to think about what she was doing; as the 'bot's grasp failed, she leaned forward and grabbed it with her closest hand.
Her left.
Ralf the Wise and Powerful snapped, "Drop it! It's a fucking medbot! Let go!"
The medbot was heavy, almost as heavy as a human being. Callia felt her shoulder separating.
How very interesting. The medbot had never seen the ground from so high up before. It looked up and abruptly terror coursed through it: the patient was holding it by her bad arm! "Drop me! Drop me!" the medbot screamed. "You are damaging yourself!"
With a single great heave, Callia hauled the medbot up into the cab, got her right hand on it and pulled it over on top of her.
"Oh!" the medbot scolded. "You are a bad patient."
The cab flew forward in relative silence.
The medbot considered its position. Front section down, optics in the patient's lap, inside the passenger compartment of a vehicle. What position would be appropriate for treating the patient--
Callia Sierran whispered, "By the Prophet. Did you see what he did?"
For a very long moment there was no response, from Ralf or the medbot. Finally Ralf the Wise and Powerful said, "But it's a medbot. What the fuck did you expect?"
Callia Sierran did not answer him. She was stone unconscious.
There was a space at the patient's feet; but it would be difficult to treat her from there. The bot's arms were long, but not that long. Perhaps--
Ralf said, "Stand up in the seat, your front section facing toward the patient, with your legs telescoped to their smallest setting. Reach around behind you with your secondary arm, grasp the seatbelt--that's the blue polymer strap with the brushed metal gray attachment. Pass the seatbelt to your primary arm, and then attach it to the brushed metal gray attachment which is attached to the smaller blue polymer strap."
Ah. It took a moment, but that worked quite well indeed. The cab was very wise. Securely fastened into the passenger holding mechanism, the medbot turned back to the patient, considering what medicines it was stocked with. An anti-inflammatory and painkiller were clearly in order. Who knew what damage the patient had done to herself.
In unbroken silence they flew eastward into the approaching night.
* * *
73.
Dvan stared straight ahead with empty eyes.
He did not seem harmed; he had been chained standing up against the wall. T
he restraints were of some polymer Denice did not recognize and did not waste time testing; if Dvan had not been able to break them, she surely would not.
Robert, in the doorway holding a rifle he'd picked up from one of the dead rebel guards, said briefly, "Leave him. Let's go."
"Fuck that." Denice brought the Excalibur up, fired four times. The beam sliced through the restraints, so close to skin that the skin bubbled; Denice smelled burnt meat, caught Dvan as he stumbled forward. "He wouldn't have left me."
"He'd have left me," Robert complained.
"William? Dvan!" No response; the man stood still, a few steps from the wall he had been strapped to, staring into emptiness. Denice slapped him, hard enough to rattle his teeth; no response.
Behind her Robert said very softly, "My dear, we don't have time for this." Without looking aside he shifted slightly, fired twice off to his left. "I'm not kidding."
Denice stood frozen in the moment, unable to leave Devane, and uncertain why--
Abruptly she knew what was required of her. She took a step backward, looked up to meet his eyes, and spoke in pure, unaccented shiata. "Dvan of the Gi'Tbad. I am a Dancer of the Flame."
Dvan stirred slightly; and after a moment spoke. His voice was the barest of whispers. "My lady. I am at your service."
"By your Dedication I require that you join me here in this place, and follow me from it. You are a Shield, a servant of the Living Flame. Will you live in the service of the Flame?"
Dvan whispered, "I will."
"Will you kill if you must?"
"Aye."
"Will you die if needed; will you live when you no longer wish to, if the service is required of you?"
"My lady," he said again, slowly, "I am at your service."
"Then follow me." Denice left without looking back to see if the big man was following; knew by the lack of expression on Robert's face that he was. They moved off down the corridor together, Dvan behind; Denice murmured, "See? How hard was that?"
Smell of smoke.
Lan brought them to a halt beside the third floor stairwell exit. He heard a firefight, not close, going on in the third floor lobby. The sizzle of lasers, the occasional crack of slugthrowers. He gestured silence to the Claw behind him, and, remembering Denice's suggestion in the basement, reached up and touched the doorpad.
Locked. Of course. "Shit. Someone give me a maser," he whispered. A hand maser was passed forward to him, and he sat next to the doorway, listening to the distant firefight. Lull, shooting; lull, shooting; lull--
During the next round of firing he masered the doorpad. Nothing happened; he tracked over, ran the maser across the door. Somewhere in there he struck the current for the door; deprived of the current that kept its memory plastic unrolled, the door abruptly remembered the shape it was supposed to have and snapped open with a crack like a rifle shot.
Lan winced.
The door opened out into a dead-end corridor. Silence. Had he been heard? If--
Laser fire again; off to the right. One of the beams appeared briefly in the open space before the stairwell door, left a smoking red spot on the wall and an ionization trail hanging in the air twenty centimeters in front of Lan's eyes.
Silence.
Lan wished briefly for a mirror, took a deep breath and got down on the floor and stuck his head out through the doorway, just far enough to see what was going on.
At the far end of the lobby, the offices of Greenberg & Bass; what was now Operations. Midway down the lobby, by the lifts, with his back to Lan and his troops, crouched a man in burnt, smoldering clothes, tucked down behind an overturned desk he was using as a shield. The laser rifle in his hands had seen considerable use; its barrel glowed cherry red.
One of the Japanese cyborgs, Lan was almost certain.
Two of Lan's troops had pumped lasers with them, the Elite killers; Lan pulled his head back, silently gestured to the Claw nearest him who had one. Pumped laser in hand, autoshot slung across his back, Lan waited for the next round of fire, waited for the next lull, stepped out from the stairwell, took the necessary split second to sight, and fired once into the cyborg's back. It worked as well on cyborgs without superconductor meshes as on those with; the cyborg exploded in a fountain of steaming bone and muscle.
Lan stepped back into the stairwell, yelled out, "Lan Sierran! Approaching the door!" He took the grenade from his coat pocket, pushed the pressure switch on the grenade in, clasped the small grenade in the palm of his right hand with the switch tightly closed; gave it a five-count, gestured to the Claw to follow him, and stepped out into the corridor with the pumped X-laser in his hands, but pointed at the ceiling.
"Hold it!" Lan recognized the voice; Joe Chang. "Lan?"
Lan kept moving, nineteen Claw behind him. "Hi, Joe."
"Stop right there!" Lan did. "What's going on out there, Lan?"
"I don't know, Joe. Things getting crazier every time I turn around. Firefight going on in the lobby when I got here; my sister's missing and I don't know what's happened to her. I made it up here and found you pinned down by one of your own people." Lan paused, called, "I need to talk to Obodi. Reports of PKF incoming, we need to evacuate now."
Brief silence. "Come ahead. Leave your weapons. Leave your men."
Lan did as instructed, knelt slowly, placed the pumped laser on the floor, added the autoshot, and straightened slowly. His right hand was sweating; he felt the grenade moving, slippery, against his skin.
He gestured the faithful to stay put, and moved forward cautiously, very aware of the lasers and slugthrowers peeking through the half open double doors. The muscles in his stomach twitched. When he was ten meters away Chang called out, "Hands on your head!"
It was a relief to comply. He put his right hand up first, laid the grenade against the top of his skull, put his left hand up and covered his right with it.
The door opened slightly wider, and rough hands pulled Lan through into Operations.
They took the stairs up to the lobby.
Denice crouched back from the stairwell doorway, Robert looking out from a slightly different angle, examining the lobby. Nothing moved, the length and breadth of the lobby; sporadic gunfire came from outside, from the plaza, but even that was distant.
Outside the building, darkness had nearly fallen; far more light came from the sunpaint overhead than from the setting sun. A thin sheet of blood covered the floor all around them. The stink of cooked meat hung heavy on the air. The troops Lan had left behind were dead, and perhaps thirty Johnny Rebs as well, most of them fallen within a few meters of the main entrance.
The silence was eerie, the plaza near empty.
Denice whispered, "They heard PKF were incoming?"
Robert nodded, whispered back, "And fled, likely. Side entrance, north."
Denice glanced to her right, saw nothing. "What?"
"Outside," Robert whispered impatiently. "Transportation." She saw it now though the lobby windows, in the twilight outside; four vans, all the same model VTL AeroSmiths, paint tuned matte black, sat motionless on the stones of the plaza, fifty meters outside the north door.
Stillness throughout the lobby; Denice nodded. "Let's go." She moved forward--
Robert restrained her. "Impatience will kill you. We're safe for the moment; what happened here?"
"They were killed?"
"Very funny," he whispered. "Yes. Many of them by hand. The blood came first; the blatant amateurs, with autoshots and lasers. Those who fell later are clean, except where they touch the floor, and have soaked up the blood of those who fell before."
Now that he pointed it out, she could see it. "Obodi?"
Robert shook his head. "I only saw him once, after our capture at Frank's house, but I think not. I believe he's deadly; but this was the work of several very well trained soldiers. Three, four--"
The lights in the lobby went out.
In the near total darkness, Denice whispered, "Four. To the left, south exit; I can see their bo
dy heat."
In a normal conversational voice, Robert said, "William, can you use this rifle? An Excalibur."
The giant's voice was jagged. "Yes."
Robert handed it over, straightened, and took a step out into the darkened lobby. "Cyborgs," he said mildly. "The young Japanese men; taking back the lobby to secure Obodi's retreat. They have inhumanly excellent hearing, I imagine; like PKF Elite. Improved eyesight; they'll see abnormally well in the dark, as though it were daylight."
"I'll go get us one of the vans."
"Do that," said Robert absently, moving out further into the darkness. Shadows seemed to gather about him. "I won't be long."
With Dvan at her back, she ran for the north door.
There was a distant rumble outside.
Sedon stood toward the rear of the room, motionless, breathing slowly and evenly; hands clasped loosely in front of him; long blond hair swept back from his hair in a loose ponytail, face completely still and composed.
Watching Lan Sierran.
Everyone in Operations except Sedon was pointing some sort of weapon at Lan; Lan could not take his eyes off Sedon long enough to know what kinds.
Sedon said gently, "Hello, Lan Sierran. Do you know I have less than five minutes to reach my car? Do you understand that we will be under fire all the way to our semiballistic, that we stand a good chance of being shot down when we try to boost, to escape the certain vengeance of Commissioner Mohammed Vance? Do you understand that?" he demanded. He took a single step forward and screamed in lethal anger, "And you are delaying me!"
Lan realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it go in a long exhalation. "Mister Obodi," he said very quietly. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here. You know what this is?" He lifted his right hand from his head, held it up with the grenade pinched between thumb and forefinger.
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