"Getting you out," Skyler told him. "We're about to launch an attack on the Ryqril."
The burly man's face turned pasty white. "Are you insane?' he gasped. "You'll kill us all! Haven't you fools learned yet that you can't fight the Ryqril?"
Skyler ignored him. "On your feet, everyone. Let's go."
"No!" The burly man's hand came up from under the table, clutching one of the fallen guards' lasers. "Call it off!"
Skyler reacted instantly, leaping to his left faster than the other's weapon could track. His knife was in the air before he landed, and an instant later the laser was flying across the room as its erstwhile owner hugged his hand where the hilt had most likely broken a bone or two.
"I said let's go, damn it," Skyler said to the group, putting steel into his voice.
Moving with terrified jerkiness, the hostages scrambled to their feet. Feeling like a glorified sheepdog, Skyler herded them down the hallway to the reception area.
Pittman was crouched by the desk, watching the front door. "Braune just pulled up with a van," he reported.
"Good. I'll see them off, then we'll follow in the other car."
"But we can't leave the Hub," one of the hostages objected mechanically, her horrified eyes glued to the dead Ryq. "The gate guards—"
"Will be out of the way soon," Skyler told her. "Looks clear—let's go."
Braune had clearly lifted the van from Security's own parking area; though unmarked, its sealed-off driver's section was designed with prisoner transport in mind. Skyler got the hostages aboard, gave Braune some final instructions, and headed down the street to their original vehicle as the van rolled off toward the Hub's south gate.
Pittman was climbing in the driver's side when Skyler reached the car. "Shove over, Pittman; I'm driving."
"I can drive, sir."
"Tricky to do while you're bandaging your own hands, isn't it? Move over."
The youth complied, and Skyler soon had them heading south. He glanced occasionally at Pittman as he drove, noted that the trainee was having a bit of trouble manipulating his medkit's bandages. It didn't matter how realistic the training simulations were, Skyler told himself silently—genuine combat always was different. "You did a good job tonight," he said, breaking the silence.
"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I missed the Ryq's head with my nunchaku."
"Forget it. It's hard to believe how fast they can move." He paused. "By the way, that was a damn fool stunt you pulled, faking that fall. By all rights you should've died there."
Pittman shrugged. "I saw you come in with your knife ready. It seemed to me you'd have a better target if I could get the Ryq to stand still a second. I figured it was worth the risk."
"And besides, you didn't want to be in my line of fire?"
"I thought you might be worried about hitting me."
"I appreciate your consideration. But don't ever do that again. Duck, go left or right, jump over the son of a cockroach if you have to, but never go down on your back in front of a Ryq. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Skyler clapped the boy on the shoulder. "After all," he said in a milder tone, "I'd hate to lose you now after all those hours of training."
Under his hand, he felt some of the tension go out of Pittman's muscles. "Yes, sir. I'll try to watch out for your investment."
In the darkness, Skyler smiled to himself Yes, this kid was for sure going to be one hell of a fighter someday.
The insistent buzz of his bedside phone dragged Prefect Galway from a deep sleep. Reaching over, he turned off the visual and picked up the handset. "Galway," he yawned.
"Prefect, this is Sergeant Grazian, monitoring Alain Rienzi. Sorry to wake you, but I just noticed something that might be important."
"Go ahead," Galway said, rubbing his eyes.
"Well, sir, Rienzi left his pills at the lodge and had to be driven back up there to get them. I've got the East Gate reports on his departure and arrival and—well, I'm puzzled by the extra briefcase he came back with."
Galway came wide awake. "An extra briefcase? Was it searched?"
"No, sir. And something else: Rienzi came through the East Gate almost fifty minutes ago, but there's no report of him arriving at his hotel. And nothing's coming in over the bugs in his clothing except what sounds like street noises."
"Call the main desk and have him pull autocab records for the last hour."
"Yes, sir." A long pause. "That's funny. No one's answering."
An unnamed fear curled itself onto the back of Galway's neck. "Go out there and find out what's wrong. Take a couple of men with you."
"Sir, he's probably just—"
"Do it, Sergeant. Call me right back—I'll be getting dressed."
He hung up and rolled out of bed, thankful that Margarite was a sound sleeper. His clothes hung neatly on a nearby chair, and he got dressed as fast as he could. He was just putting on his boots when Grazian called back with the news. "Beta Alert," the prefect ordered. "Get extra men to the gates; I want the Hub sealed off. See if they've done anything else in the building—" a memory clicked with a hunch—"and get some men to the Records Building right away."
The other acknowledged and signed off. Scooping up his gunbelt, Galway fastened it securely around his waist. It had finally come, he thought grimly, checking his laser's power leveclass="underline" the explosion he'd feared for so many years had finally started.
With one final look at his sleeping wife, he hurried from the apartment.
CHAPTER 8
It was time.
The music in the Apex Club had reached a thundering climax; the echoes of it still reverberated through the room. Together, the music, lights, and alcohol had turned the crowd into a seething cauldron of anger and frustration. The teen-agers were ready to explode.
And the necessary catalyst was also ready. From the other side of the stage Denis Henrikson was looking across at Durbin, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Durbin nodded agreement. Smiling grimly, Henrikson got to his feet and stepped onto the stage, picking up a mike. For his part, Durbin pushed his chair back and prepared for action.
"Friends!" Henrikson's amplified voice boomed into the room, and a few of the teen-agers paused in their conversations to look back at the stage. "What are we sitting here for? What are we letting the damn collies do this to us for? Don't we care any more?"
More and more heads were turning, and the buzz of conversation was fading as Henrikson launched into a scathing indictment of the government. It wasn't so much the words themselves, Durbin knew—everyone had heard all this before—but the way Henrikson said them. He had that undefinable aura of authority, that charisma that made for a born leader. To his natural abilities had been added three years of secret training in psychology and sociology, until Henrikson had become a master manipulator of human emotion.
And the crowd was responding. The background noise was growing again—but it was no longer composed of frustrated conversation. The sounds were animalistic, full of hate and violence. In one corner a chant had started: "Burn it down! Burn it down! Burn it down!" More and more people took it up, and within seconds the building was shaking with the angry stamping of feet.
At the table in front of Durbin's a dark-haired youth reached furtively into his pocket. Unnoticed by the mesmerized chanters around him, Durbin moved up behind him; and as the teen-ager's hand emerged, Durbin struck the back of his neck a short, carefully placed blow. The youth sprawled unconscious across the table, and Durbin stooped to retrieve the object the other had dropped. It was a tiny communicator.
Durbin replaced it in the youth's pocket, smiling in satisfaction. He'd long suspected this one of being a Security informer—it was the main reason he'd chosen the table he'd been sitting at. The collies couldn't be allowed even a hint of what was about to happen.