Heads swivelled and Margo was the abrupt focus of multiple, astonished stares.
Oh, Lordy, here we go... . "I'm Margo Smith, I'll be one of your time guides to London—"
"You?" The sound was incredulous, just short of scathing. Another voice from further down the line of shooting benches said, "What high school is that kid playing hooky from?"
Margo's face flamed. So did her temper. She bit down on it, though, and forced a brittle smile. Ann Mulhaney, the rat, just stood off to one side, waiting to see how she handled herself. Oh, God, another test... . One she'd better pass, too, drat it. So Margo ignored the incredulous looks and scathing remarks and simply got on with the job. "Most of the other guides are already in London," she said firmly. "I've been assigned the job of shepherding you through weapons training, so let's get organized, shall we? We've got a lot to do. Everyone's signed in, been assigned a lane and a shooting partner? Yes? Good. We'll get started, then."
Dominica Nosette interrupted, in a voice acid enough to burn holes through solid steel. "Why d'you insist we learn to shoot? It isn't proper, isn't decent, handling such things. I'm a photojournalist, not some macho copper swaggering about and giving orders with a billycock, nor yet some IRA terrorist. I'm not about to pick up one of those nasty things."
Hoo boy, here we go...
Margo said as patiently as possible—which wasn't very—"You don't have to carry one with you. But you will have to pass the mandatory safety class if you want to be a part of the Ripper Watch Team. Not my rules, sorry, but I will enforce them. London's East End is a very dangerous neighborhood under the best of conditions. We're going into areas that will be explosive as a powderkeg. Tempers will be running hot. In the East End, gangs of thieves and cutthroat muggers routinely knife prostitutes to death, just to steal the few pence in their pockets. Any stranger will be singled out by suspicious minds—"
"Oh, sod off, I've never needed a gun, not on a single one of my photo shoots, and I've trailed mob hit men!"
Oh, man, it's gonna be a long three months...
Margo steeled herself to keep smiling if it killed her, and vowed to cope. "Ms. Nosette, I am fully aware of your credentials. No one is questioning your status as a competent journalist. But you may not appreciate just how dangerous it's going to be for us, even for the team members born in England, trying to blend in with Victorian East End Londoners. It's your right to choose not to carry a personal weapon. But the rules of the Ripper Watch Team are clear. You must be familiar with their use, because many of us will be carrying them. And the more you know about the kind of gun some Nichol-based gang member pulls on you, the more likely you'll be to survive the encounter—"
"Miss Smith," Dr. Shahdi Feroz interrupted gently, "I am sorry to disagree with you, but I have been to London's East End, several years ago. Most of the Nichol gangs did not carry guns. Straight razors were the weapon of choice. So popular, laws against carrying them were suggested by London constables, even by Parliament."
Margo was left with her mouth hanging open and blood scalding her cheeks until her whole face hurt. She wanted desperately to dig a hole through the concrete floor with the toe of her shoe and crawl down through it, pulling the top in after herself. Before she could recover her shattered composure, never mind think of anything to say that wouldn't sound completely witless, the station's alarm klaxons screamed out a warning that shook through the weapons range like thunder. Margo gasped, jerking her gaze around.
"What's going on?" Dominica Nosette demanded.
"Station emergency!" Margo shouted above the strident skronkk! Ann had already bolted toward her office. Margo was right behind, literally saved by the bell. Oh, God, how'm I ever gonna face that bunch again? Ann flung open her office door, snatched up the telephone, dialed a code that plugged her into the station's security system. Margo crowded in, then barricaded the doorway so tourists and the Ripper Watch Team couldn't barge in, as well. A moment later, Ann hung up, white-faced and shaken. "There's been a shooting! Skeeter and Ianira! Security's just put out a station-wide alarm. Ianira's missing! And there's a station riot underway!"
Her voice carried out through the doorway to the milling throng of tourists and Ripperologists. For one agonizing second, indecision crucified Margo. Ianira was a friend, a good friend, but Margo had a job to do here. And no matter how desperately she wanted to run from her own embarrassing mistake, she had to finish that job.
Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast, however, showed no such hesitation.
They grabbed equipment bags and ran.
"Margo! Go after those idiots!" Ann was already striding toward the exit, blocking the way with her body. "Nobody else leaves this range, is that clear? Nobody!" Diminuitive as she was, none of the others challenged her. They'd all seen her shoot. And nobody wanted to face down the Royal Irish Constabulary revolvers she abruptly clutched in either hand, rather than wearing benignly in twin holsters.
Margo, however, broke and ran, pounding up the stairs after the fleeing British reporters. "Hey! Wait!" Yeah, like they're really gonna stop just because I said so...
They didn't even slow down.
Seconds later, Margo—hard on their heels and gaining ground—emerged straight into chaos. A seething mass of frightened, confused tourists tried to rush in fifty-eleven directions at once, kids crying, women shouting for husbands, fathers grimly dragging youngsters toward anything that promised shelter. The awesome noise smote Margo like a physical blow, a fist made up of alarm klaxons, medi-van sirens, and screaming, shouting voices. Security squads raced past. Officers were jamming riot helmets on, even as they ran.
Margo's AWOL reporters surged right into the thick of utter chaos, dragging out cameras and recorders on the fly and pounding along in the wake of security. Margo swore under her breath and darted after them. She was small enough to dodge and weave with all the skill of a trained acrobat. An instant later, however, total darkness crashed down, engulfing the whole Commons. Margo skidded to a halt—or tried to, anyway. She caromed into at least half-a-dozen shrieking people before she managed to stop her headlong rush. Sobs of terror rose on every side. The insane wail of the klaxons shook through the darkness.
Margo stood panting in a film of sweat. The hair on her arms stood starkly erect. Unreasoning fear surged. Booted feet pounded past through the total blackness, startling Margo until she realized those odd helmets she'd seen security putting on were Mike Benson's new night-vision helmets. What seemed hours, but couldn't have been longer than a few minutes later, the lights started coming back up, moving gradually inward from the far edges of Commons. Margo blinked as the overhead lights flickered back to life in banks, illuminating Edo Castletown at one far end of the station and the Anachronism's Camelot sector and Outer Mongolia at the other end, around several twists and turns where Commons snaked through the massive cave system into which TT-86 had been built.
Tourists clung to one another, badly shaken. Margo searched the crowd for her charges and finally caught a glimpse of purposeful movement. The Ripper Watch reporters were on the move again. She swore in gutter Latin that would've shocked Cicero and pounded after them. "Are you crazy?" she demanded, catching up at last. "You can't go in there!"
Dominica Nosette flashed her a pitying smile. "Love, never tell a reporter what she can't do—can't is one word we don't understand."
Then they reached the zone of destruction. They'd beat SLUR-TV, the in-station televison news crew, to the punch. Dominica and Guy started filming steadily on every side as more reporters arrived, trailing cameras and lights and microphones. Then Margo caught her first glimpse of the blood and the broken bones.