The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  A moment later, Simon spoke to her again. “Kafari, do you want me to come in with the aircar?”

  “No,” she said, after squelching the instantaneous, little-girl desire to have him swoop down once again to play knight-errant, “I don’t. I’m okay. I may be stuck here for a few hours, but I’m okay. And the baby’s okay, Simon, I’m sure of it. If I need help, I’ll call.”

  “You’ve got your birthday present?” he asked, in oblique reference to the console gun she carried.

  “In my hand,” she said cheerfully.

  “Good girl. All right, sit tight for now. I can be there faster than an ambulance could reach you, if you need help.”

  “Okay.” She smiled through the mess streaming down her face, aware that her blouse was wet and that her suit was probably ruined beyond repair by the damage sustained. Her smile turned rueful. If she could worry about her suit, she really was all right. “Simon?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “I love you.”

  His voice gentled. “Oh, hon, I love you so much it hurts.”

  I know, she thought silently. She was sorry for that part of it. Sorry for all the reasons behind it. For her inability to change it, to change the reality behind the old pain, the new fears. The best she could do was love him back, as hard and as fiercely as she could manage. She settled back against the cushions, laid the gun in her ungainly lap, and waited for the end of danger, so she could go home, again.

  II

  It was, Simon reflected bitterly, one of the worst political mishandlings he had ever witnessed. Images relayed through Sonny’s surveillance systems, picked up from a combination of commercial news broadcasts — including sky-eyes in hovering aircars — and police cameras, told a tale of unfolding disaster in the heart of Madison. The wildly inflammatory performance by Vittori Santorini was bad enough, on its own. He’d never seen anything like that virtuoso performance, with one man plucking and vibrating and drumming a crowd’s emotions to riotous heat, with nothing more than a fanfare, a well-timed sunset, and a few words uttered with stunning skill.

  Far worse — infinitely worse — was John Andrews’ reaction to the violence that erupted almost inevitably in the wake of that stellar, if brief, show. With rioters engulfing the heart of downtown Madison, John Andrews had not appreciated Simon’s flat refusal to send in the Bolo. Simon hadn’t thought it was possible to commit folly greater than using a Bolo to break up a riot, but what he was witnessing now…

  Riot police, intent on containing the violence, were pumping gas cannisters and riot-control batons into the crowd along a periphery six blocks deep and spreading. Rioters, crazed by hatred, rage, and choking gas clouds, had rushed police lines in dozens of places. Officers were going down under makeshift bludgeons, while the police were using riot clubs in self-defense. Simon noted with a cold, jaundiced eye that none of the commercial news feeds contained footage of rioters beating downed law enforcement agents, but showed graphic images of police clubbing down women and half-grown teenagers.

  He sat alone in the apartment, watching the split-screen images in rising dismay, while John Andrews’ reelection chances grew dimmer with each passing moment. If he hadn’t reached Kafari, reassuring himself that she was unharmed, he would’ve been streaking toward Lendan Park in an aircar. He was seriously tempted to fly in, anyway, and land on the roof of the parking garage where she was trapped for God-alone knew how long. The only things that stopped him were an unshakable faith in Kafari’s ability to defend herself from a blockaded bunker — he’d made damned sure that her groundcar was as well armored as her Airdart — and the knowledge that if things went crazy enough in Madison, tonight, he might well need to be right where he was, to watch developments through Sonny’s eyes and ears, rather than in an aircar with nothing but a commlink and a small-scale datascreen.

  The crowd spilling out of Lendan Park poured down Darconi Street, looting and pillaging through government offices and retail businesses. A cordon of police stood locked shield-to-shield between the crazed mob and Assembly Hall, swaying in places where the shock of human bodies thudding against the riot shields pushed the officers back, toward the wide steps leading up to Jefferson’s highest legislative nerve center.

  Simon had a grimly clear picture of what was at risk, given the mood of that crowd and the contents of that building. He could understand, at a deep level, the president’s desire to use military force great enough to stun that unholy pack of madmen into silence. Not only was Assembly Hall and all its records and high-tech equipment at risk, so was the Presidential Residence, only a few short blocks away. If the rioters breached the locked shields of the police trying to contain the mob, things would go from ugly to deadly.

  Something needed to be done, fast.

  Simon wasn’t expecting what someone — the president or maybe a panicked military official — did about it. Despite the poor lighting conditions, since full darkness had fallen by now, he caught the first whiff of trouble within moments, far sooner than the news-camera crews realized what was happening. He saw the cannisters go off midair with a gout of flame as they broke open explosively, but there was no smoke, no visible cloud of riot gas, just a colorless burst above the crowd. Within seconds, people were falling down like children’s jackstraws, piled every which way. They toppled in a flopping, macabre wave, grotesquely animated for two or three seconds before going utterly still. The wave spread faster than heartbeats. One of the news cameras abruptly plunged to the street, continuing to record the now-skewed images as its owner plummeted to pavement, as well.

  Simon came to his feet, sweating and swearing. “Kafari! Can you hear me? Kafari, shut off the ventilation on the car! Seal it up!”

  “What?” she sounded confused.

  “They’ve gassed the crowd with war agents!”

  “Oh, God…”

  Simon couldn’t tell what she was doing, through the open commlink. He could just make out her pained, gasping breaths, a sound of sudden, raw terror. Surely, Simon told himself, surely they weren’t stupid enough to use a lethal compound on an unarmed crowd? He’d looked at a supposedly comprehensive inventory of munitions and war agents, just prior to the Deng invasion, and there hadn’t been any biochemical weaponry listed. Had somebody quietly stockpiled it, without recording the fact in the military inventories? Or was this a recent import? From the freighter in parking orbit at Ziva Two, maybe, slipped in with parts and equipment needed to complete the station? Either way, heads needed to roll for it. Roll and bounce.

  If it was a big-enough molecule, it might not get into the car. He’d paid top money for both of Kafari’s vehicles, air and ground, with dozens of specialized modifications planned with war in mind. Even if it did get inside, it might not be lethal. There were paralytic agents that would immobilize a person without killing or doing irreversible damage. There were others, though, that inflicted permanent damage, sometimes severe. What a “non-lethal” gas could do to Kafari and their unborn child… The edge of the desk bit into his hands, while he waited in helpless terror.

  Talk to me, hon, talk to me…

  “I’ve got everything sealed,” Kafari said in a voice hoarse with raw stress. “The vents, the windows, everything I can think to seal.”

  “Can you get out of the garage? Drive away from the affected zone?”

  “No, the streets are jammed. I barely made it to the car.”

  “Sit tight, then. Sonny, track the signal from Kafari’s commlink. Pinpoint her location on a map of Madison. Show me wind speed and direction. And get President Andrews on the line. I need to talk to him.”

  “Retrieving data. Superimposing now. There is no response from the president.”

  Simon swore viciously. New split-screen images popped up in a mosaic, showing him the downtown area, the spreading clouds of visible gas marking the drift-direction of the invisible ones, as well, and the atmospherics he’d requested. The tightest of the knots in his muscles relaxed a fraction. Kafari’s refuge was u
pwind of the cone-shaped dispersal pattern. A couple of city blocks upwind. Not a lot of distance, but it might be enough. Maybe. Let it be enough.

  “Sonny,” he said, voice rough with strain, “send an emergency notice to the commander of Nineveh Base and the hospitals. We’re looking at massive casualties, already, and that gas cloud’s going to keep spreading. Warn law-enforcement officials downwind. Have ’em sound an emergency alarm. If we can get people into shelters…” He broke off, watching the speed of dispersal, and swore again. There wasn’t time to warn enough people. The leading edge was already spreading out into the suburbs, the teargas attenuated enough to be essentially harmless, but what about the paralytic agent?

  Simon jabbed controls with savage fingers, trying to contact the president again. He managed to raise a staffer on the fourth attempt.

  “Simon Khrustinov, here. Find John Andrews. Find him now. I don’t care if you have to yank him off the toilet, get him on the line.”

  “Hold, please,” the woman said, voice infuriatingly calm.

  An eternity of seconds crawled past. Then the president, sounding out of breath and flustered, snapped, “What the hell do you want, Krustinov?”

  “Who authorized use of a paralytic war agent?”

  “War agent? What the hell are you talking about? The police are using riot gas, Khrustinov. Thanks to you.” The last word was bitter, full of hatred.

  “Then you’d better talk to the police, Andrews, because you’ve got a major disaster spreading through Madison. Turn on your damned datascreen and watch the newsfeed. We’re talking thousands of casualties and the downwind dispersal pattern is still spreading—”

  “Simon,” Sonny broke into the conversation, “riots are erupting in Anyon, Cadellton, and Dunham. Unemployed miners and factory workers are rampaging through residential and commercial districts, protesting the use of biochemical weaponry on unarmed civilians in Madison. I recommend shutting down all commercial news broadcasts to prevent further inflammatory footage from sparking more protest riots.”

  John Andrews abruptly activated the video link, looking bewildered. “What the hell’s going on?” he was demanding of a staffer. “Don’t tell me you don’t know! Find out!” He turned to look into the camera. “Khrustinov, will you kindly explain the magnitude of the problem?”

  Simon sent the data images Sonny was providing, tracking the magnitude of the unfolding disaster. Andrews took one look and blanched, skin fading to the color of dirty snow. “Oh… my… God…” He swung around, shouting, “Get General Gunther on the phone. Get him now. Alert the hospitals. And find out what that stuff is — and who authorized it!”

  A deep, nasty trickle of suspicion made itself felt. President Andrews didn’t look or sound like a man trying to cover up a bad decision. He genuinely didn’t know what was happening, what had been released, who had authorized it. Simon couldn’t imagine any lower-ranking officer on site using a paralytic agent without extremely high clearance, which narrowed the field to a very small number of suspects. Acting on a hunch, Simon said, “Sonny, show me Lendan Park, real-time as of now. And did you record anything after the end of that speech?”

  “Transmitting view of Lendan Park,” Sonny responded. “Accessing databanks.”

  The heart of Lendan Park was eerie in the darkness, too still and far too silent. The only things moving were tree branches and the gold and green “peace banners” fluttering and snapping in the wind. He could see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bodies strewn across the ground like flotsam thrown up onto the shore after a storm at sea. He used digital controls to zoom in on the stage, frowning to himself. The stage was empty. Vittori Santorini was nowhere to be seen. When had he left? Where was he now? Somewhere in that crowd of fallen followers?

  Sonny shunted a recording of the speech and its aftermath to another split-screen viewing window. He killed the audio and simply watched the final moments of the speech and the frenzied explosion of the crowd. There were multiple views of the stage popping up as Sonny tapped more news and police cameras. Most of the cameras swung to follow the abrupt wave of violence engulfing the edges of the park, but a couple of them, doubtless security cameras installed in police vehicles, continued to show the stage. He watched, cold to his bones, as the clouds of tear gas drifted past the stage. Watched, even colder, as the still-unidentified war agent began its macabre work.

  He was still frowning at the scene when a rustle of motion near the base of the stage arrested his attention. He adjusted the zoom and watched, morbidly fascinated, as several people crawled out from under the stage, the skirts of which had been draped in POPPA bunting. Simon leaned forward, abruptly. Whoever they were, they slipped into the open, stepping cautiously across the fallen bodies, moving furtively and quickly. Simon counted five of them, all wearing gas masks. Why? Had they merely exercised prudence, foreseeing the use of tear gas? Or had they known in advance that a more dangerous substance was going to be launched into the air above their loyal followers? He didn’t like the implications. Not one teensy bit.

  Kafari’s voice interrupted his dark and suspicious train of thought.

  “I feel okay, Simon,” Kafari said. “Should I be feeling sick? What’s happening, out there?”

  More of the subconscious tension gripping his midsection uncoiled. “Honey, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that.” Simon willed his hands to let go their death-grip on the edge of his desk, then drew several deep, calming breaths. “And no, you shouldn’t be feeling sick. If you’d breathed that stuff, you’d have gone into convulsions and ended paralyzed within a few seconds.”

  A shocked, choked sound of horror came through the commlink. “Convulsions? Paralyzed? What in the name of all that’s unholy did they turn loose?”

  “I’m trying to find out. Don’t get out of the car for anyone or anything until you get an all-clear from me. The affected zone is downwind from you, so you should be all right where you are. Don’t try driving out, yet. God knows what trigger-happy police would do, watching a car emerge from that part of the city, just now. Do you have anything to eat or drink with you?”

  “Uh… Let me check the emergency kit.” He heard rustling sounds, one sharpish grunt, then she said, “I’ve got a couple of bottles of water and some energy bars.”

  “Good. I’d say we’re looking at maybe eight to ten hours, to get things calmed down and get some answers on what we’re dealing with, here. Ration them, if you have to, but remember dehydration’s worse than hunger.”

  “Right.” Grim, down-to-business. The voice of a woman who’d seen combat and knew the score. “I’ll wait it out as long as it takes. I don’t suppose anyone knows where Vittori Santorini is?”

  “Not yet,” Simon growled. “Why?”

  “I’d like to give him my personal thanks for landing us in this mess.”

  Simon surprised himself with a smile, fleeting but genuine. “That’s a sight I’d give a paycheck to see.”

  Her chuckle reassured him. “Love you, Simon. Call me when you can.”

  “Love you, too,” he said, voice rough with emotion. All to hell and gone…

  He turned his attention to the disaster engulfing the rest of Jefferson. Sonny was tapping news feeds from five major cities, now, rocked by explosive protest riots. Law enforcement agencies, engulfed and overwhelmed, were screaming for help from Jefferson’s military. Reserve forces were scrambling from half a dozen military bases, rushing riot-control units to contain the damage. Simon scowled. The very presence of soldiers in the street was creating damage, serious damage, guaranteed to play right into Vittori Santorini’s grasping hands. Rioters on the receiving end of combat soldiers’ armed attention would lay blame, loudly and savagely. And there was only one logical scapegoat available to take the brunt of the blame: John Andrews.

  With the election tomorrow…

  Simon swore under his breath, torn between disgust and a sneaking trickle of admiration for a stunning job of planning and executing the downfa
ll of a political regime inimical to Vittori’s plans. The man was fiendishly clever, charismatic, a natural showman — and deadlier than any scorpion hatched on old Terra. Simon had never seen any political or social movement capture hearts and minds as fast as Vittori’s Populist Order for Promoting Public Accord had, gaining speed and winning converts by the thousands every day.

  How many more would join POPPA after tonight, Simon couldn’t even hazard a guess, but he was betting the final tally would run to the millions. He wondered bleakly if John Andrews truly understood the magnitude of political disaster Jefferson now faced. POPPA’s so-called party platform was a wildly jumbled hodgepodge of rabid environmentalism, unsupportable social engineering schemes with no basis in reality, and an economic policy that was, at best, a schizophrenic disaster begging the egg for a chance to wreak uncountable chaos.

  Within half an hour, the magnitude of the night’s damage was brutally apparent. Smoke was rising toward the stars from dozens of arson fires blazing unchecked across downtown Madison, where firefighters — forced by circumstances to relinquish their biohazard gear to emergency medical teams — refused to go into the affected zone until more equipment could be brought in from Nineveh Base. With conflicting news reports flying wild, John Andrews called a press briefing, appearing before the stunned population with a plea for a return to calm.

  “We are trying to determine the number of casualties, but the vast majority of victims are alive,” he said, visibly shaken. “Medical teams have set up emergency field hospitals in Lendan Park and the Franklin Banks residential area. Nearly a hundred doctors, triage nurses, and emergency medical technicians are moving through the area in full biohazard suits, administering counterparalytic agents and treating people with serious injuries. The paralytic agent appears to be affecting the voluntary muscle groups, which means most people should not be at risk of death. We’re still trying to determine what the agent is, so we can administer effective medical treatment. Be assured that no one in my administration or law enforcement will rest until we have found and brought to justice the person or persons responsible for this atrocity against unarmed civilians. I therefore urge you to return to your homes while professional emergency teams respond to the crisis.”