He thought, suddenly, of Hero Cop and had to fight down a very undignified giggle. No doubt, if called upon to suppress a riot, Hero Cop would just flex his muscles and the rioters would all run for their lives. It didn't work like that in the real world, he knew all too well. There would be a hardcore of rioters who would want to fight, a number who were trapped by the press of the mob and couldn't escape ... and others who, hopefully, would make their retreat as soon as they realised the forces of law and order had arrived. Glen silently prayed that most of the rioters would run, even though it meant they would almost certainly escape arrest. It would reduce the coming bloodshed ...
And this could be a diversion, Glen thought, feeling his blood running cold. They’d expected major riots ever since the Fall of Earth, but this was the first one to materialise, just when the Marshals had started to wonder if the prediction was wrong. Someone else could be taking advantage of our distraction to do something. But what?
He shook his head as the vehicle rattled to a halt. There was no longer any time for anything, but doing his duty.
“Helmets on,” a voice ordered. A dull clang rang through the vehicle as something – a stone, perhaps – bounced off the armour. “Log into the secure network and prepare to deploy, as per orders.”
Glen braced himself, then pulled his helmet over his head. The HUD lit up at once, drawing on the live feed from hundreds of security monitors – far fewer than there should have been, he noted – and datastreams from his fellow officers. Piece by piece, the riot was being surrounded, with only one avenue of escape left open. It wasn't how Glen would have preferred to handle it, but he had the feeling that Patty hadn't been given much choice. The upper classes wouldn't just want the rioters dispersed, they’d want them punished.
The doors banged open, revealing a scene from hell. Glen saw hundreds of people running in all directions, some carrying obviously-looted goods, as the officers deployed out of the van. The noise of people shouting and screaming, of windows being smashed and vehicles destroyed, was growing louder. He gritted his teeth and followed the others out of the vehicle, forming a line. Beyond, towards the centre of town, the real mass of rioters were waiting.
He thought, briefly, of Helen. And then he went to work.
***
“But I’m telling you that you have to arrange a pickup,” a woman was pleading. “My husband is the Special Assistant to the Secretary of Health and the Environment and he would be most displeased if something happened to me.”
Belinda had to smile at the waiter’s barely-controlled exasperation. “The flight paths over the city have been closed down,” he said, somehow managing to sound patient. “We can only wait for the law enforcement forces to clear the streets before we lift the lockdown.”
“But my husband is important,” the woman wailed. “I ...”
“She’s deluded,” Augustus murmured in Belinda’s ear. “Her husband wouldn't have his job if he didn't have a close relative on the Governor’s Council. He gets paid bribes to stay at home and do nothing, even keeping his workers from doing anything. It’s all he’s good for.”
Belinda nodded. The panicky woman wasn't the only customer on the verge of coming apart, but she was certainly the loudest. And definitely the most obnoxious. She might have been pretty, twenty years and much less makeup ago, yet right now she was just irritating. A few more minutes, Belinda decided, and she might just give into the temptation to sedate the woman, even though it would be far too revealing. Perhaps she should just bang her on the head.
She strode away from the door before temptation could overwhelm her and walked over to the windows, peering down into the darkened streets. Several vehicles had caught fire as the rioters crashed through the district, while a handful of shops were already aflame. The Hullmetal that had been used to make them was indestructible, at least by rioters, but the remaining stockpiles of clothes and other expensive goods would burn well. Belinda had no expensive tastes – it had never been part of her life, before or after joining the Marines – but she felt a flicker of regret at so much destruction. Businesses would be ruined, people would be unemployed and the local economy would take more damage.
“I can't see anything,” Augustus complained. “What are they doing?”
“They’re doing what people always do when there’s trouble and rioting,” Belinda said. Her cover story included a few riots. “They will smash a few things, kill or maim a few people and then disperse before the law arrives. Or they will try to fight the law. Or us.”
She thought, rapidly, about her options if the mob managed to break into the building and find their way up to the dance floor. Avoiding them would be easy, if she was on her own, but it would be far too revealing if she used her augmented abilities to protect others. And yet, what else could she do? She no longer had the dispassion that had once allowed her to watch horrors without intervening, no matter how much she might have wished to do something.
You watched unmoved as a woman was beaten to death for talking back, Pug reminded her, nastily. Why are you so moved now?
I was not unmoved, Belinda thought back, angrily. I was simply doing my duty.
But it was a weak excuse. Han had been a brutal violent planet, on the verge of boiling over into a mad slaughter for years before the shit finally hit the fan. She'd been there long enough to see horror after horror, from wives killed for defying their husbands to a father killed for trying to stand in his son’s way. The Slaughterhouse had been brutal, but it was focused brutality, aimed at preparing her for her work. Han ... had just been a bloody nightmare.
“Don’t worry,” Augustus said. “The forces of law and order will get here soon.”
Belinda nodded, trying to ignore the howls of laughter in her head. She was more dangerous than everyone else in the building put together, even in her reduced state, and yet he was trying to reassure her. But she appreciated the thought, even though she knew it was nonsense. If the rioters were too deeply embedded, or armed and prepared for confrontation, it might be hours before the law enforcement forces finally managed to disperse them. And it was quite possible that they would break into the building before the police arrived.
A dull tremor ran through the building. Belinda looked up, alarmed. The restaurant had been built to very strict standards, back in the days before a large bribe could get even a dangerously-unsafe building cleared for habitation. But if it was shaking now ... she clicked through her implants, searching for any alert messages, but heard nothing apart from the standard emergency message. The law enforcement agencies hadn't managed to shut down the communications network yet.
Sloppy, she thought, as the building shook again. Very sloppy.
“Ah, we have a breach in the lower levels,” a voice said, over the loudspeaker. “If you could all make your way up to the highest levels ...”
Augustus caught Belinda’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “We don’t want to be caught here.”
Belinda nodded, thinking hard. “Shut down the elevators,” she called over to the waiter, who was being badgered by another man with more importance than common sense. “And seal the staircase, completely.”
“The system isn't designed to shut down,” the waiter said, clearly glad of the interruption. “It’s a sealed unit, My Lady. It doesn't even shut down if there’s a fire.”
Belinda resisted – barely – the temptation to snap at him, or slap him as hard as she could.
“Then call the elevators to this floor and put something in to keep the doors from closing,” she ordered, when she was sure she could talk evenly. Honestly! It was so obvious! But she had a feeling that no one had drilled the staff in emergency procedures for years, not when it was easier to bribe safety inspectors than meet their requirements. “The idea is to keep the rioters downstairs from using them.”
“Good thinking,” Augustus muttered, as he pulled her up the stairs to the next level. “What else do you have in mind?”
“Lock and barricade
the doors,” Belinda said, shortly. She had her doubts about any of the rich idiots being able to put up a fight, but there were few other options. “And, if you have a terminal, start writing your will.”
She turned and walked to the bar, inspecting the selection of alcoholic drinks. It was possible, assuming that the building had stuck with basic safety procedures, that the stairwells were intended to serve as fireproof shelters as well as a way of getting down to the streets when the elevators weren't working. And alcohol could be used to start a fire ...
“Too dangerous,” the waiter said, when she mentioned the possibility. “We don’t want to burn the building to the ground.”
Belinda sighed, then quietly collected several bottles anyway, just in case. The only other option was blocking the stairwell, which would be difficult now that almost everyone had moved to the uppermost levels. Silently, she cursed the designers for not leaving the staff a way out, even though she knew it was unfair. Any emergency escape chutes would lead down to the riot, where they would be torn apart if they were caught trying to escape. And the only other hope was to be picked up by an aircraft.
She turned and looked out over the city. One building had already caught fire, despite the design, the flames spreading too quickly to be entirely natural. She checked the location against the map she’d downloaded and stored in her implants and swore under her breath as she realised it was a government office, one responsible for enforcing countless hated and unnecessary regulations. There were too many horror stories about just how far the bureaucrats had slipped out of control for her to doubt that the building had been targeted deliberately. Hell, when the general population heard of the building’s destruction, they’d probably consider the rioters heroes.
If they don’t already, she thought, coldly. It had always puzzled her that the rioters, the rebels, were regarded as heroes while those who struggled to maintain law and order were spat on in the streets. But if the general population felt helpless against all-powerful bureaucrats, it might explain why they loved the rebels. And yet ... what did the rebels intend to create to replace the government? Revolutions were called revolutions, the old joke ran, because they went round and round.
“You don’t need to worry,” Augustus said. He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it, tightly. “We will survive.”
“Thank you,” Belinda said. He meant well. She knew he meant well, even though she also knew how absurd his words were. “But you don’t have to worry about me.”
She sighed as she saw helicopters appearing over the city, beaming light down towards the rioters. The forces of law and order had finally arrived ...
... But she knew it was already too late to stop the rioters from causing havoc – and, perhaps, from unbalancing the government. And who knew what would happen then?
Chapter Sixteen
This is, in short, the origin of the phrase “the law is an ass.”
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.
Glen braced himself as the rioters surged forward, feeling a sick sense of fear in his lower chest. The rioters hadn't been cowed by the sudden appearance of the law enforcement forces as he’d hoped; if anything, it had given them new heart. Alerts flashed up in front of his eyes and he swore, silently. Someone was using civilian communications devices to coordinate the riot and direct fighters towards the police lines.
“We need to shut down the communications network,” he said, as he lifted his shield. The line formed a barrier, locking their shields together into an unbreakable wall. “They’re using it against us.”
“The civilians are balking,” Patty said, from where she was trying to coordinate the law enforcement agencies. “There’s a shitload of money tied up in keeping the network active.”
And that isn't a coincidence, Glen thought. I’ll bet my life that someone organised it deliberately.
The line wavered as the rioters slammed into it, pressing against the transparent shields with all the force they could muster. Glen saw men and women, most of them only a few years older than Helen, staring at the police lines with utter hatred as they shoved at the shields, then started to throw projectiles over the barricade. Most of them were rocks and pieces of debris, but some were makeshift Molotov Cocktails and even a couple of improvised explosive devises. Glen’s lips quirked at the fresh evidence that the bureaucrats who were responsible for ensuring that no one bought enough material to be dangerous were asleep at the switch, then he pushed the thought aside. There would be time for recriminations later.
“Use gas,” he ordered, as the line shuddered. The first wave of rioters were in very real peril of being crushed by the second and third waves, as irresistible force met immovable objects with them caught in the middle. “Put them all to sleep.”
He watched, grimly, as gas grenades arced over the barricade and started to spew out gas, but half of the rioters produced masks and pulled them over their faces before they could breathe in any of the gas. Glen swore under his breath – the manufacturers had flatly refused to make the gas effective if it touched a person’s skin – and then winced in pain as a number of rioters fell to the ground. They’d be trampled by their fellows before the police could rescue them, he noted in horror. His decision had made the whole riot much worse.
“Hold the line,” he ordered, bitterly. Stunners would be usable, but they’d just make a bad situation worse. “And prepare the neural whips.”
The crowd seemed quieter now the masks were on, but no less determined to break through the lines. Glen drew his whip, activated it, then barked a single command. The shields were yanked back, allowing him and the second line to start lashing out at the crowd. Shrieks of pain echoed through the street, sending the rioters at the rear stumbling backwards, then running for their lives. Others lost their masks and fell, knocked out by the gas. Glen watched in relief and concern as the rioter mass collapsed, then started to flee. The Marshals advanced carefully, leaving the sleeping bodies on the ground. There was no time to tend to them now.
Glen had never visited the central shopping district outside working hours. It was simply too expensive for him, a monument to the vanities of wealth and power. The shops were wonders of design, constructed in a dozen different styles, all intended to showcase just how wealthy the owners were – and just how wealthy a person had to be to shop there regularly. There were no prices on any of the goods, he’d seen. If a person had to ask the price, they couldn't afford it.
Now, it had become a nightmare. Every window within reach – and a few that shouldn't have been reachable – had been smashed. Secure doors had been torn off their hinges, allowing the rioters and looters to break into the building and start taking whatever they wanted. A handful of vehicles burned merrily, adding smoke and fumes to the confusion. And hundreds of young men and women ran everywhere, carrying whatever they could away from the riot.
“Warn them,” Glen ordered, as the Marshals spread out. In the distance, he could hear the sound of more fighting as another mass of rioters met a Civil Guard force. Red icons flashed up in his helmet display, noting facilities. “And stun them if they offer any resistance.”
Isabel tapped her helmet. Her voice, when she spoke, was crude and masculine, without any traces of emotion.
“PUT DOWN THE STOLEN PROPERTY AND SIT DOWN ON THE GROUND, THEN PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS,” she ordered. “OFFICERS WILL BE ALONG TO TAKE YOU INTO CUSTODY. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RESIST.”
Glen lifted his stunner. Several of the looters obeyed, their bodies trembling as they realised that they’d stayed too long and now they were caught, others tried to run. The Marshals stunned them in the back and watched as their bodies hit the ground, then moved on and into the first set of shops. Glen vaguely recalled that it had once sold a tiny number of handbags, each one worth more than an entire CityBlock. Now, the handbags were gone, the shop was wrecked and completely deserted ... no, he could hear someone snivelling in the far corner, trying de
sperately not to be heard. He motioned for Isabel to cover him as he peered through the shadows, eventually spying a young couple, one of them clutching a stolen handbag as if it were a life preserver.
“Get over here,” he snapped, as they stared at him in horror. Part of him guessed that they’d seen the riot as the first chance of real excitement they were likely to have, after a long and boring life in the cityblocks. The rest of him didn't care. He unhooked a pair of zip-ties from his belt, then secured their hands behind their backs. “You’ll wait here until we come back to pick you up.”
“But ...” the boy started to stammer. “I ...”
“Quiet,” Glen ordered. He was in no mood for excuses, not now. “Stay here. We will be back.”
They searched the rest of the store quickly and efficiently, finding nothing apart from a dead body that looked to have been beaten to death. Glen made a note of the body’s location for the datanet – it was very much a third-order priority right now – and then pressed on, leaving the two arrested teens behind. Outside, the riot was slowly dying away as more and more Civil Guardsmen appeared, brandishing weapons as if they were ready to use them at a moment’s notice. Glen nodded to their leader, then led Isabel into the next store. This one had also been looted badly, but there were no rioters within the building. Glen was relieved, more than he cared to admit, as they moved back out of the building and sealed it. He was too tired to arrest people safely, not now.
“The riot seems to have been dispersed,” Patty said, over the communications network. “Keep a sharp eye out for people who might have been organising the riot – I want them held separately and stunned until the techs can have a look at them. I don’t want to risk losing them to suicide before they can be interrogated.”
Glen nodded. If someone had deliberately organised the riot, capturing the organisers might be the first step towards rounding up and destroying the entire network. It might be a Nihilist plan, he considered, but it didn't seem too likely. The body count was surprisingly low for their normal plans.
The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) Page 15
