[CONNECTION FAILURE. INSUFFICIENT SIGNAL STRENGTH.]
“Damnit!” Jian punched the console in white hot anger and immediately regretted it. Something in his hand gave way with a POP. The metacarpal behind his right pinky finger looked like someone had tried to pitch a tent.
Jian inhaled sharply and cursed his stupidity. The break was clean, and he’d managed not to make a compound fracture out of it, but in a few minutes, it would hurt like hell, and he didn’t look forward to setting his own bone.
There was one more thing to try, he knew. But it would mean physically rewiring a few components, a task that would be all the more difficult with only his off hand to work with.
The Buran didn’t have internal power generation. No miniaturized fusion plant recharged its batteries, nor did it sport a passive solar array. In atmo, her oxygen-breathing turbine and ramjet engines bled off some of their output to power the electrical systems. But out here in space, all of her electrical came from fuel cells which tapped into the same internal reserves of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen reserves that fed her rockets.
These fuel cells used a chemical reaction between the atoms of hydrogen and oxygen to create electricity, extracting power from the fuel in a somewhat slower, more subdued way than when the two elements met in a combustion chamber. Either way, the end result was consumable energy and pure water. Still, available stores of hydrogen and O2 put a hard cap on the amount of electricity the shuttle could produce and still have enough fuel left in the tanks to go anywhere useful.
Jian intended to use all of that spare fuel to charge up the shuttle’s bank of quick-discharge capacitors for a single, high energy burst transmission that would last until the laser burned itself out.
It took almost ninety minutes to make the necessary modifications to the Buran’s electric grid, and another twenty-five for the fuel-cells to convert three full days of fuel into electricity and pack it into the capacitor bank. Then another twelve minutes to convince the shuttle’s safety systems to accept the whole insane, jerry-rigged system without complaint.
With sweat pouring from his forehead in spite of the growing chill of the flight deck, and his right hand throbbing with pain, Jian pressed the icon to power up the whisker laser once more and held his breath.
[CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.]
Thirty
Benson’s quadcopter passed low over a warzone.
“Ho. Lee. Shit,” Korolev whispered.
“Cuut be merciful,” Kexx said solemnly.
“I’ll need one of those rifles,” Sakiko added with all sincerity.
The scene below them was appropriately apocalyptic. The Native Quarter was quiet, eerily hollow. But it only took a glance to understand why. The Atlantians had emptied their ghetto and moved on the rest of the city in force. A wave of native youths crashed against Shambhala’s defenders and scattered them like leaves in a strong autumn wind. The Glades were already lost. Benson spotted his home of the last eighteen years as they flew by. It had not been spared.
The muscles in Benson’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “I just trimmed those topiaries,” he said, trying to force some levity onto the grim situation, but it didn’t take. Smoke columns billowed up into the sky from a dozen or more structural fires, which was no mean trick. Humanity had spent the last two centuries and change living onboard a starship. Fire consumed irreplaceable resources, burned through precious oxygen, poisoned the air, and clogged the environmental filters. In space, it was the greatest threat they faced outside of catastrophic meteor collisions. Out of necessity, they’d gotten very good at fire-resistant materials and fire-suppression systems. You really needed to want a building to burn to get it to stay lit.
Public transit was already offline after someone had torn up a length of track, electrocuting themselves in the process. Benson had ordered Korolev to divert the quadcopter from the airfield and land it right on the roof of the station house.
They’d had to dodge a thunderstorm on the way back from the mine that ate up almost fifteen minutes of flight time. Their drone’s batteries were being drawn down to the dregs. A shutdown warning sounded through the cabin, alerting everyone that the quadcopter would perform a forced landing in fifteen seconds.
“We’re not going to make the station,” Korolev said.
“Override the shutdown,” Benson said.
“Are you serious?”
“They build spare capacity into everything. We’ll make it.”
“And if we’re short?”
“We’ll autorotate down.”
Korolev blew out a long breath and worked the controls. The alarm chime and countdown disappeared. “No offense, coach, but I’m going to take her a little lower. Just in case.”
“Oh, no, please do. I insist.”
Korolev set the copter’s altitude to ten meters, which was still a hell of a long way to fall if it came to that. The two- and three-story rooftops of Shambhala’s residential district swept by underneath them at disturbingly close proximity. The nest of com antennas perched on the station house’s roof came into view. Another two hundred meters. They were going to make it.
Right up until the propellers stopped spinning.
The quadcopter died around them, first the even whine of the electric flight motors, then the augmented reality overlay and heads up display in the canopy. Benson’s stomach lurched as the quad abruptly lost airspeed and altitude.
“Brace! Brace! Brace!” Korolev shouted frantically just as the bottom of their fuselage clipped the first rooftop and compressed the spines of everyone aboard into their fight chairs. Everyone except maybe Kexx, who didn’t technically have a spine, but–
The forward arms of the quadcopter crashed headlong into the second story of a café. The motors snapped off at the roots among the clinking of a thousand shards of shattered window glass. The copter held there for a long moment, until gravity won out and dragged the back of it towards Gaia’s embrace as it slid down the building’s faux-brick exterior, ripping off chunks of veneer as it fell.
The rear motors hit the sidewalk first, shattering the propellers and fraying the carbon composite of the structural members that held them. What remained of the quad fell backwards and came to rest upside down next to a gelato cart abandoned by its owner.
Korolev hung from his seat’s five-point harness. “Spare capacity, huh, coach?”
“Shut up, Pavel.” Benson craned his head back to the rest of the passenger compartment. “Everyone OK back there?”
“I am intact,” Kexx said.
“Still need that rifle,” Sakiko answered.
“When you’re older,” Benson said, then braced his good hand against the top, now bottom, of the canopy and hit the release on his crash web. The anchors of the five-point harness came loose with a metallic click and sent Benson falling towards the roof, floor. He tried to open the starboard side door, but it wouldn’t give, not even with a shoulder check of encouragement. The portside door was more accommodating.
“I’m never flying again,” Benson said.
<10-4.> Benson stuck his head back inside the downed quadrotor’s cabin. “C’mon kids, time to get out of bed. Mommy’s pissed.”
&
nbsp; Bumped and bruised, but none the worse for wear, they recovered what little equipment they’d brought along from the quad’s storage compartment and pushed hard for the station house where Benson and Korolev could get into the rest of their riot gear. There might even be spares lying around for Sakiko. Kexx, well, ze was already pretty damned hard to kill. Ze’d manage.
The normally bustling street that divided the Glades from the Museum District was bare, and eerily silent. The sounds of chanted slogans, crackling of fires, and smashing of windows filtered through the alleys from several blocks away. Remote enough not to present an immediate threat, but ominous all the same. Benson led his mismatched little quartet down the center of the avenue. They were exposed, walking in plain sight, but the wide lanes gave them plenty of visibility and time to respond to any surprises that might pop out from around a corner.
Assuming the rioters hadn’t gotten their hands on any rifles.
Benson crossed mental fingers and pressed on. Fortunately, they arrived at the doors of the station house without any amateur snipers throwing potshots downrange at them. The equipment lockers inside had been thoroughly picked through, but Korolev’s personal gear was still there, and he managed to scrounge up some older, mismatched pieces for Benson and Sakiko.
They emerged a handful of minutes later donning well-worn and somewhat ill-fitting helmets, chest protectors, shoulder pads, forearm guards, groin and thigh coverings, knee pads, and shin guards. It wasn’t ballistic rated, but it would do the job against blunt objects like clubs, thrown rocks, and most edged weapons. There were gaps in the armor all over the place, especially the joints, but it would have to do.
Benson had grabbed a hard plastic tonfa, as well as a clear acrylic shield that already carried the scratches of several past engagements. Sakiko still wanted a rifle, but Korolev put the kibosh on that idea real quick. And since he was the only one with the access codes to the weapons locker, it was his call.
“It’s itchy,” Sakiko complained as they marched towards the Museum.
“Yeah, well we usually wear shirts and pants under the armor, kiddo,” Benson said. “It’s going to be ugly when we get there. Stay close to Kexx and me.” Benson expected a fight, or a biting retort, but the gravity of the situation had apparently worked its way into even the teenager’s brain. She’d been somewhat more somber since they’d discovered Foreman Lind’s body. Sometimes growing up took years. Sometimes, it happened in an afternoon.
Benson started to jog despite the extra weight of the gear. He’d never given into the temptation to let his workout routine slide, even as the battle grew increasingly difficult as the years piled on. Now, he was really glad he’d been so hard on himself. The rest of the quartet followed suit. The sounds of unrest grew in intensity as the Museum itself came into sight until they drowned out all other noise.
“They’re really worked up,” Korolev said. “I can barely hear myself think!”
“Lucky you don’t do much of it, then,” Benson shouted back. “Switch to the squad link. Kexx, Sakiko, just stay close and keep an eye out for hand signals. You might not be able to hear anything over this racket. And stay sharp. Theresa says half these kids are high as kites.”
“Lovely,” Kexx said.
The Museum campus sat at the very end of the long central avenue that bisected the district. Theresa’s forces had set up a perimeter spanning from one side of the avenue to the other with a string of safety barriers and constables wearing the same sort of riot gear Benson and Korolev were wearing, plastic shields, and a variety of less-than-lethal weapons ranging from batons, to tonfas, to stun sticks. A couple of the constables even held the shock shields they used in the jail for extracting noncompliant inmates from their cells. Benson spotted a dozen PDW rifles identical to the one Korolev carried, but they were shoulder slung and being kept out of the confrontation. For now.
But the safety barriers were flimsy affairs, meant more as visual warnings around construction sites than proper barricades. The line of constables worked to hold their ground, but a constant barrage of rocks and debris rained down on them, thrown from deeper in the crowd with the unnerving accuracy Atlantians possessed. The defenders had to split their attention between incoming missiles overhead, and the pulsing mass of bodies on just the other side of their inadequate blockade.
In the crowd’s wake, desolation ruled. Every window and door along the boulevard was smashed or splintered. Awnings had been ripped off their frames. Recycling cans were either tipped over with their contents strewn about the street, thrown through storefront windows, or set ablaze. Benches were torn free of their foundations, and several of them had been passed overhead to the very front of the crowd where they were being used as makeshift shields, battering rams, or counter barriers. Street lamps had been pulled down or had their LED bulbs smashed. All of the bushes, trees, and landscaping had been uprooted, slashed, and torn up by thousands of grasping toes. It would take months to repair the damage, and set their manufacturing queue back just as long.
The throngs of rioters flowed and convulsed like a violent sea. Most of them had taken off their shirts and let their skinglow run wild with waves of harsh patterns and light. But these Atlantians had mostly grown up in Shambhala. They lacked the fine control over their skin of their kin across the ocean. Whereas a large gathering of warriors, or a village assembled in ritual prayer looked like a single, coherent, interconnected organism. But this mob, they looked like static loudly blaring from a broken video display.
But as they approached the line, the rioters’ chants became clear enough. The translation matrix in his plant lagged trying to sort out the different voices from the din, but Benson didn’t need it. “Defilers of Varr,” they shouted, over and over, as if in a trance. The rhythm of it all was almost… hypnotic.
Benson found the hedonistic crowd’s newfound piety more than a little convenient, but then riots were seldom about their cause célèbre, not really. It was a spark, an ignition source for a preexisting, highly-combustible mix of social grievances, economic stagnation, and emotional despair. Couple those fuel sources with thousands of listless, frustrated, drugged-up youths, and you had the perfect fire triangle of social upheaval.
The ingredients had been present for years, but the humans of Shambhala had let them fester in the dark, so obsessed they were with keeping their eyes fixed on a brighter future they refused to look down and see the suffering around them. Now, they were paying the price for that neglectful hubris. All Benson and his allies could do was work to contain the damage.
A bench came crashing down on one of the barriers, splintering it into a hundred white and orange plastic shards. Emboldened by the breach in the line, the mob surged forward and pressed against the defenders. The center of the line bulged and threatened to break entirely.
Benson turned to Kexx and Sakiko. “We’re going up the center. Stay on my ass and back me up!” he shouted over the surging crowd.
The four of them joined the rest of the thin blue line separating civilization from chaos. Theresa had called in her reserves, which included many of the Mustang’s bench of players, including several brave Atlantians standing up to defend the city from their own kin. Benson finally spotted the outline of his wife, standing right in the thick of the action because of course she was. He pushed towards her position at the breech in the middle of the line.
dead when Theresa turned around to look at him. Half of the clear plastic face guard attached to her helmet had cracked and fallen away. An angry purple bruise and a stream of blood dripped from her left cheekbone.
A fist-sized chunk of masonry came flying in at an oblique angle, but Benson got his shield up in time and it skipped harmlessly off the acrylic, leaving another new scratch to mark its course.
“Gunna have to do better than that!” Benson shouted in challenge to the mob.
It answered with a bigger rock that left a crack in his shield.
Benson changed tactics. “Hey Sco’Val! Has the Bearer figured out you planted that bomb in the Temple yet?”
“You lie!” Sco’Val shouted, loud enough to be heard over the din.
“I saw how you looked at it, Sco’Val. You also knew where the drug house was. And now you’re inciting a riot along with all these kids you gave the bak’ri to. You’re under arrest as soon as I get my hands around your skinny little neck.”
“Do your worst, defiler!” Sco’Val physically shoved several hesitant rioters towards the line. They pressed in with renewed vigor, bowed the barricades inward and put the defenders behind them on their back feet.
Children of the Divide Page 35
