Should just arrest both groups, he thought, sourly. The right to peaceful protest was enshrined in the constitution, but this wasn't peaceful. Let them spend their energy in the work gangs instead.
He paced up and down, his eyes passing over the protesters and the wire separating them from the estate. Some of the more violent protesters had talked about breaking down the wire and lynching the refugees personally, even though there was no way anyone could turn a blind eye to that. Others had talked about taking refugees into their homes, even billeting them on nearby residents. Alastair had no doubt that even trying to billet refugees on unwilling citizens would spark off a major upheaval. The vast majority of people in nearby apartments were locking their doors, stocking up on weapons and readying themselves for a fight. They no longer trusted the government or the police to handle the situation.
God help us if more refugees arrive, Alastair told himself. We’ll be overwhelmed within weeks.
He glanced up, sharply, as he saw a gang of refugee men at the gatehouse. It was hard to keep his distaste off his face. The refugee males all seemed to delight in challenging the police, as if they saw the police as the natural enemy. They had no respect for the uniform, apparently. Alastair had been told that the refugees had been tormented by the police on Tarsus, but he didn't see it as an excuse. The police on Arthur’s Seat were very different ...
“Get down,” someone shouted.
Alastair threw himself down automatically, one hand scrabbling for his truncheon as he rolled over and over. The refugees were carrying weapons ... military weapons? He hadn't seen anything like them outside bad entertainment flicks. How the hell had they got them? And then the refugees opened fire ... bullets ripped through the air, slamming into the anti-refugee protesters. Alastair crawled forward, watching in horror as bodies fell like ninepins. The refugees were firing on the protesters ...
He hit the panic button, cursing the government under his breath. Someone had failed, he thought, as he crawled backwards. Someone had allowed the refugees to bring in weapons ... there was no other way they could have obtained the weapons. Even if they’d looted a gunshop, which was unlikely, they wouldn't have found anything nastier than hunting rifles or sporting pistols. He gripped his truncheon tighter as he kept moving, wishing he had a rifle or pistol of his own. There was no way he could fight back with just the glorified club.
The noise - gunshots, screams, shouts - was growing louder, deafening him. It had to be audible all over the city. Gunshots weren't exactly uncommon, but military assault rifles ... everyone would hear the racket. And then ... and then what? There was a firearms team on duty in the capital, he thought, but they’d probably be outmatched. They’d certainly be outgunned. The Orbital Guard wasn't trained or equipped to fight an insurgency ...
They’re mad, he thought, numbly. He crawled around a couple of bodies, two young women wearing long dresses. Forsakers? Or protesters mocking the Forsakers? It was clear, from the bullet wounds, that there was no point in trying to help them. They were already beyond help. How many people have they killed?
He reached a patrol car and took cover. It wasn't a tank - he would have preferred an armoured car - yet it would give him some protection. He grabbed for his radio, intending to call for help, but the frequencies were jammed. The system was overloaded ... it was impossible. Nothing like it had ever happened before. But then, the system wasn't designed to receive and prioritise thousands of calls at the same time. Half the city was probably trying to call the nearest police station, reporting gunshots and wounded. The thought almost made him smile, despite the situation. He had no doubt that his superiors already knew that all hell had broken loose.
The gunshots were trailing away now, only a handful of scattered shots ringing out as the attackers found more targets. Alastair braced himself, then peered around the car, ready to yank his head back at the slightest hint of trouble. The scene before him looked like a scene from hell. Bodies lay everywhere, the two protest groups slaughtered without mercy. The Forsakers had fired on both groups ... he felt numb, even as he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Cars were burning brightly, the flames casting wavering shadows through the air ... a handful of wounded were screaming, wordlessly begging for help Alastair knew would never arrive. The hospitals wouldn't send ambulances into a war zone ...
And it is a war zone, he thought. He’d heard stories about terrorist attacks, but there had never been any terrorists on Arthur’s Seat. There had been nothing to fight over. Hell, the government had happily purchased starship tickets for anyone who wanted to leave the planet, if they wanted to live somewhere else. We are at war ...
He heard a sound behind him and turned. A young man was standing there, pointing a gun at him. He wore a mask covering the lower half of his face, his eyes flickering with hatred as he squeezed the trigger. Alastair reached for his truncheon, trying to bring it up desperately, but it was already too late ...
***
Gayle Gambeson fought her way back to awareness, honestly unsure if something had happened or if she’d just had a very unpleasant nightmare. God knew there had been times, particularly after eating too much cheese for supper, when her dreams had been utterly horrific. But none of those dreams had ended with her waking up surrounded by bodies, all bleeding to death ...
She took a breath, then almost choked. The stench of death was all around her. She shuddered, pushing at bodies that had suddenly become too heavy to move. Her awareness spun as she fought her way clear, her aches and pains suggesting that she was battered and bruised. And her memory seemed confused, almost damaged. She'd been in a protest group, hadn't she ...
The memories surfaced, one by one. She'd worked with the refugees, bringing them clothes and food; she’d joined her fellow descendants, protesting the cramped and unpleasant conditions in the estate. She’d helped collect names for a petition, names of people who might provide temporary housing for refugees ... she’d even started to talk people into donating money to the refugees. Surely, once the refugees had money, they could rent homes of their own. Gayle could even buy out Judith’s share of the lease, then take a handful of refugees into her apartment. It wouldn't be hard. Judith - she felt a pang of bitter grief at the thought - couldn't rent the apartment herself. Neither of them could ...
And if we can’t stand each other any longer, she thought, it might be for the best.
Awareness crashed down on her as she finished pulling herself free and sat upright. Bodies lay everywhere, bleeding to death. She felt her gorge rise as she saw a headless corpse lying on the ground, her entire body shuddering as she saw mutilated bodies ... all blurring together into a horrific mass. Hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, were dead ... cars were burning, windows were smashed, buildings were pocked and charred ... what the hell had happened?
She turned as she saw movement. A number of young men were advancing out of the estate, carrying guns. Intimidating guns. Gayle had never seen anything like them, let alone handled them. Hell, her parents had even refused to sign permission slips for firearms safety training in school. And the men were coming towards her ... what had they done? Who were they? Their clothes marked them out as Forsakers ...
Gayle couldn’t move, her head spinning. It was hard, so hard, to think clearly. She wanted to believe that the anti-refugee protesters were responsible for the disaster, but why would they wear Forsaker clothes? The refugees ... could the refugees have fired on the police and protesters? It was unthinkable. They’d gunned down people who were on their side! And yet, she couldn't avoid the truth ...
A strong arm grabbed her, yanking her upright. Gayle’s legs buckled and she staggered, almost falling against her captor. Merciless eyes stared down at her, running over her body in a manner that chilled her to the bone. Her blouse was soaked with blood, clinging to her skin ... she tried to pull away, only to be slapped across the face. She would have fallen if she hadn't been held firmly upright.
“March,” her captor
growled.
The pain helped her to focus as she stumbled towards the gatehouse. Armed men were everywhere, watching her carefully. She hadn't felt so exposed since the day she’d realised she was more interested in girls than boys. The changing room had been an utter nightmare ... she pushed the thought aside, desperately, as she saw other prisoners being herded forward, into the nightmare. Their faces were slack with horror. Nothing like it, absolutely nothing, had ever happened on Arthur’s Seat, not until now.
Gayle gritted her teeth as she was shoved into a small building. God alone knew what it had been intended for, once upon a time, but now it seemed to be a prison. She flinched as her captor patted her bottom as he let her go, his touch sending unwelcome shivers down her spine. A dozen other women were pushed in behind her, looking as shocked and helpless as Gayle felt. It was hard, so hard, to wrap her head around what was happening. They had been taken prisoner ... and then, what? Hostages? Or were they going to be married to the highest bidder? All of a sudden, the horror stories she’d spent so long debunking on the datanet seemed terrifyingly plausible. Judith had been right ...
She sank down, sitting against the concrete wall. Judith had been right. Nothing Gayle had ever experienced - from her parents, from her grandparents, even from her weird uncle who refused to touch anything remotely unnatural - came close. The refugees had killed hundreds of people, perhaps thousands ... there had been so much blood on the ground that she couldn't avoid wondering if millions of people had been killed. Perhaps the entire city was dead. It didn't seem likely, but nothing seemed likely any longer.
Judith was right, she thought. I was a fool.
One of the women was battering on the door, demanding to be released. Gayle ignored her as best as she could, trying to look around to find a way out. But the walls were concrete, the windows were too high and too small for a baby to crawl through and the door itself was solid metal. Escape was impossible. All they could do was wait and pray they were rescued before it was too late. But perhaps there would be no rescue ...
She rested her head in her hands as she struggled not to cry. She’d been an utter fool. The refugees had nothing in common with her. And yet, she’d allowed herself to drive her girlfriend away because she’d thought more about the ideal than the reality. And now she was a prisoner, a hostage ... they could do anything to her, anything at all, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. If some of the horror stories were actually true ...
I’m sorry, she thought, although she wasn't sure who she was apologising too. Judith ... or herself. I’m truly sorry.
But she knew, deep inside, that it no longer mattered. She’d lost control of her own destiny, the moment she’d been taken prisoner. And now her fate rested in someone else’s hands.
***
“The Elders are locked up,” Steward Yale reported. “They made a bit of a fuss.”
“As long as they can't talk to anyone, they should be fine,” Joel said. Everything had gone as planned, thankfully. His people were now in control of the estate, holding the entire complex under firm control. All the time he’d spent picking out the ones most likely to follow him and grooming them had not been wasted. “How’s the ammunition?”
“We fired off a fourth of our entire supply,” Yale told him. “And there’s no hope of getting more.”
Joel nodded. Arthur’s Seat didn't seem to produce military-grade ammunition. The manuals insisted that civilian ammunition could be configured for military weapons, but they didn't actually go into details. Joel rather doubted any of his people could do the work, even if they somehow got their hands on the factories. They were located quite some distance from Lothian, after all.
We’ll just have to hold position, he thought. The local government was weak. It wouldn't attempt to challenge them, now they’d staked out their territory. They’ll give us what we want rather than put up a fight.
“Make sure you put the teams on the outskirts,” he said. There was no way they could take and hold the entire city, but he didn't want to remain penned up in the estate either. “I want any policemen killed or driven out, along with any civilians who are unwilling to join us.”
“Yes,” Yale said. “The civilians are already fleeing.”
Joel nodded. All had happened as he’d foreseen. The locals had crumbled, the moment he’d shown his might. And the Elders, the cowardly old men ... by the time they were released, they’d see that there was no point in opposing him. The doddering old fools would bend the knee to youth and determination. They would serve him or else.
He allowed his smile to grow wider as Yale turned and hurried away. There was no point in delaying matters, not now. The unmarried girls would be matched up with his strongest supporters, no matter what their parents said. Given time, the female hostages would eventually be turned into brides too. His men would be very loyal once they realised what he’d done for them. There would be no more nonsense about settling in, about finding a farm, about satisfying the girl’s parents ...
They’ll marry because I arranged their marriages, he thought. And I will reclaim Hannah too.
He clenched his fists at the thought. There were plenty of unmarried girls who would be honoured to marry him - and their parents would not object, not now that Joel was the uncontested leader of the commune. But he wanted Hannah. He was damned if he was allowing her to beat him. Making the local government return her would set the final seal on their craven surrender.
And if they don’t return her, he promised himself silently, I’ll take her myself.
He turned as Steward Gary walked up to him. “Nine men are dead,” he said. “Five more are wounded.”
Joel frowned. “How did they die?”
“Two were shot by armed protesters - or perhaps the police,” Gary told him. “Another was killed when his Molotov Cocktail exploded. The remainder were killed by their own weapons. They didn't know what they were doing.”
Joel shrugged. There hadn't been any time to practice - and even if they could, it would have been far too revealing. Nine dead ... it wasn't bad, not really. He suspected that far more than nine policemen were dead. And while the planet’s population had them badly outnumbered, they weren't concentrated in one place. Nine dead ... they’d be hailed as heroes.
“Make sure the wounded get good treatment,” he ordered. “Will they recover?”
“They may need modern treatment,” Gary said. “The Elders ...”
“The Elders have no say in the matter,” Joel snapped.
He considered it. Allowing the use of modern technology would set an uncomfortable precedent. The Elders rarely allowed it unless there was no other choice. If people were shown proof that technology could make their lives better, they might not look past the benefits to see the downsides ...
“Do what you can for them,” he said, finally. “We don’t have access to a modern hospital.”
Gary nodded, then walked away.
Joel smiled to himself as he turned to peer out over the city. He’d won. He controlled the estate, he controlled the guns ... he controlled everything he needed to make the local government bow the knee to him. And then ...
His smile grew wider. The future looked bright and full of promise.
Chapter Thirty-Six
And why not? The Empire had destroyed any hope of a moderate solution. The old settlers had been forced to take the newcomers; the newcomers had been forced to move from their homes and land on new and unwelcoming worlds. (And, by this time, there were generations who were native-born.) Both sides saw themselves as fighting for the right.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.
William gritted his teeth as he strode into the Parliament chamber, Sondra following at his heels like a kicked puppy. Troutman had moved with terrifying speed, as soon as the first verified reports had hit the datanet. He’d contacted the Speaker and demanded an immediate vote of no-confidence. William had barely had time to get an updated report f
rom the Chief Constable before the summons arrived, ordering him to present himself before the Members of Parliament. In hindsight, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise.
The anger in the chamber was terrifying. William had hoped, desperately, that the first reports would prove to be exaggerated, but - if anything - they were understated. Boos and hisses followed him - and Sondra - as they made their way to the front benches and sat down, the catcalls coming from all sides of the chamber. Nothing could make it clearer, now, that he’d lost the confidence of his backbenchers. The MPs were struggling to distance themselves from him before it was too late.
He caught sight of Troutman, sitting on the other side of the chamber and gritted his teeth in anger. Troutman had timed his move perfectly, capitalising on a disaster that would make it impossible for most of William’s MPs to support him. Their positions were at stake. The datanet was already overflowing with rumours about recall elections, about MPs who wouldn't be backed by their local parties unless they turned on their leader. Hell, the entire party was at risk. It was quite possible that vast swathes of voters would simply change sides.
Culture Shock Page 36